


patchwork hearts

by sequestering



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Growing Up, M/M, Quidditch, putting NHLers in tiny english towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequestering/pseuds/sequestering
Summary: Sid comes to flying late.He leaves his first class blinking back tears, stomach churning with embarrassment, and desperately missing home. It's not an auspicious start.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 69
Kudos: 174
Collections: The 2020 Sid/Geno Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romantic_drift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantic_drift/gifts).



> romantic_drift, your prompts were brilliant, and I so appreciated the excuse to give this pairing another Quidditch AU. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> A huge thanks to [sidcrosbyforpresident](https://sidcrosbyforpresident.tumblr.com/) for the beta.
> 
> This is set in the Harry Potter universe and touches on some of the issues that are inherent to the muggle-born/pure-blood set-up of that world. Bigotry is not a central part of the fic, but there are some references to structural inequalities. Given the global conversation right now, it feels worth adding that this is absolutely not intended as a comment on current events.
> 
> Edit: Date updated to reflect author reveal.

Sid comes to flying late.

His first flying lesson is the last class of a very long day, on the last day of a very long week. He's late stumbling onto the Quodpot fields, lost and tired, his head aching with unfamiliar words, his second-hand robes itching uncomfortably at the back of his neck, and a lump sitting treacherously at the back of his throat.

The lump turns into blinking back tears when he and the other two muggle-borns spend the whole lesson wobbling around unsteadily, toes dangling only a few inches off the grass.

"Move with the broom," barks the short, muscular witch who introduced herself as Professor Cox. Sid tries to move with the broom, but it's impossible. It turns this way and that, speeding up and slowing down with even the slightest shift of his weight. He tries to keep his eyes on where he's going, on the grass or the broom, anywhere other than at his classmates whooping and laughing, wheeling and dive-bombing each other overhead. Some of them even have their own brooms, sleek and polished wood that gleams in the afternoon sun.

He grits his teeth through to the end of the class, stomach churning with embarrassment, cursing wizards and witches for their stupid methods of transport, and desperately missing home.

It's not an auspicious start.

Sid dreads flying lessons all through that first year.

It's not that he doesn't like flying. A few months in, when he's finally got the hang of steering and height control, it becomes quite fun, a bit pointless unless you like Quodpot, but still fun. It's more that he doesn't like the sharp bitterness that bubbles up in his chest, the frustration of knowing that he's years behind his classmates and there's nothing he can do about it.

Sid loves magic. He's loved it since Professor Lintott first appeared in Halifax with a letter, a wand, and a charm to set the air to dancing with perfect icy snowflakes. He loves that it fills the world with wondrous secrets and discoveries, that it fixes problems in strange and brilliant ways, that he can floo home through the fireplace. He doesn't think he'll ever stop feeling a spark of wonder when he flicks his wand and something amazing, miraculous, unbelievable happens.

But he doesn't always love this strange new world.

He can work hard in lessons, he can do the extra reading, he can keep careful notes and try not to ask silly questions but he can only do so much. There's a whole world of history and language and in-jokes and celebrities and food and sport and animals, and Sid's always one step behind. It's a world that isn't built for him. A lot of the time it feels like a world that doesn't even want him.

By the end of first year, Sid is pleased to go home. He'll miss Mottlefont and its magic, but he's missed home more.

_(If first year is hard for Sid, it's agony for Trina._

_She knows her quiet, stoic little boy. She knows what he looks like when he's - not lying, Sid's never been that kind of child - but when he's hiding something, when his smile is closed-mouthed and fragile and the stories he tells about his strange school are more about classes than friends._

_And, God, she misses him like a stab wound, a missing organ, a constant pain in her side. She knew she'd lose him one day, but not now, not when he's eleven, cheeks still round with puppy-fat and wanting hugs before bed._

_At the end of summer, she asks him if he wants to come home; they could enrol him at the local again and it'd be like nothing had ever happened. She tries not to let him see the hope in her eyes, to hear it in her voice._

_He thinks about it for a few minutes, little forehead scrunched up seriously._

_"I think I want to stay at Mottlefont, please."_

_Another year. She'll give it another year.)_

Sid stumbles across Quidditch by accident.

He's working on his Herbology homework, more interested in collecting shrivelfig roots from the outskirts of the caves than the game that's being played on the fields behind him. Sid wonders absently why they'd be playing Quodpot so far from the Quodpot fields, in this out of the way stretch of grass, but the snapping shrivelfig soon demands his attention, and he forgets about the players. At least, he forgets until he hears a high-pitched whizzing sound moving towards him at speed, a panicked shout of "WATCH OUT," and he turns in time to avoid what looks like a cannonball shooting towards his head.

He falls backwards, heart pounding and mouth gaping open.

One of the players, carrying what looks like a baseball bat, flies over to him and begins beating the aggressive ball back towards their game.

"Sorry, kid!" She yells over her shoulder. "Won't happen again!"

Sid forgets about the shrivelfig.

He watches the group play until dusk falls, and he can barely make out the players. The freezing late September evening has stolen into his bones, his fingers have lost all feeling and his teeth have given up on chattering. Sid barely notices. It's a crazy game they're playing, all high speed chases, tight turns, lightning fast passing, and massive collisions. He's never seen anything like it.

He's told that they play Tuesday and Friday, that beginners are welcome, and that the game's called Quidditch.

"Quidditch," he mouths to himself as the group moves off, pushing and shoving, filling the cold evening air with laughter. It's a funny word. He likes it though, likes how it feels on his tongue.

That Friday, Sid goes back to the little patch of neglected grass by the caves with a borrowed school broom and his heart in his mouth.

He goes back again the following Tuesday. And the one after that and the one after that.

His flying is terrible. Quidditch requires the ability to manoeuvre the broom one or even no-handed and throw or hit with the other, so Sid regularly careens off away from the play or tumbles embarrassingly onto the ground below - he learns quickly that soft-impact charms are fairly limited. His stopping mainly depends on barrelling into other players and he can only turn clockwise. All that and he's never had more fun in his life.

He heads back to his dorm each evening, hands blistered from clinging onto the broom for dear life, whole body aching and a huge grin splitting his face.

Mottlefont, he soon discovers, has three Quidditch teams. There's the Mooseheads which is made up almost entirely of European transfer students, the Mooses who are still mind-blowingly fast, and the Mongooses who run the mixed-ability Tuesday/Friday pick-up games. No one will explain why all the names rhyme.

Sid starts playing matches with the Mongooses the week after he joins. He stutters at first and tries to turn them down.

"I'm not," he begins apologetically, "I'm not very good."

Neil, the wiry fifth year who captains the team laughs and claps Sid so hard around the shoulders that his knees shake. "Dude, don't worry about it. We're all shit here, and we need the players." Then he musses up Sid's hair.

That's another thing that's nice. Sid had forgotten the team aspect of a team sport, the instant camaraderie, that feeling of belonging that comes with shared victories - or, with the Mongooses, shared defeats.

Neil wasn't wrong. They're kind of horrendous. They lose their first four games convincingly and only eke out a win in their fifth when the snitch miraculously decides to flutter behind their seeker's ear.

A little part of Sid hates that. He's never taken losing well, and it's even more frustrating when there's nothing he can do about it. His teammates laugh at him for being over-competitive, call him their "little kneazle," and correct his grip on the broom.

He is getting better. He's always been naturally athletic; apparently the hand-eye coordination that made him good at baseball and the three-sixty awareness that was so useful in hockey transfers well to Quidditch. But progress is slow.

After their final game of term finishes, the Mongooses all settle down on the grass to watch the Mooseheads. There's no proper seating around the Quidditch field so they're all jumbled together with Sid jammed between Neil and Maria, the third year who plays keeper and likes to try handstands on her broom. It's a rivalry game against the Haileybury Hammers so they've come prepared, jars of enchanted fire to keep them warm, snacks and banners and chants that just toe the line of school-appropriate.

Sid watches the Mooseheads wheel and dive above him, so swift and confident that they barely seem to need brooms. He wants to play like that, free and furious and so in sync that they might as well share a mind. He wants that so much his heart burns with it.

_(Trina can't decide what to make of Quidditch._

_Sid tells her that they play the "non-contact" version, but he's cagey about the details. She knows that means that she wouldn't approve, that it's probably dangerous, under-officiated and highly inappropriate for a 12 year-old._

_She also knows that there's colour in his cheeks, mud in his hair, and a smile on his face every time they talk. She knows the names of his teammates and what positions they play, knows that he doesn't spend long evenings with only old books and a librarian for company._

_So maybe she would rather hear that he's taken up some form of magical knitting or that he's joined a board games club, but really she'll take anything that makes her serious little boy laugh that honking giggle.)_

Sid comes back after the Michaelmas break with a goal.

He's always been a goal-orientated person, likes achievements, especially when those achievements involve beating people. It's the reason he could never get into flying before Quidditch; it was so directionless, no way to win.

His new goal is to make it to the Mooseheads.

The only person he tells about his goal is Taylor. He sneaks into her room before he leaves for Mottlefont, sits down next to her bed, and talks her through everything: Quidditch, the teams, which of his skills need the work, and how he's going to do it. Taylor watches him, eyes huge and unblinking. When he finishes, she stays quiet for a few seconds then tells him seriously, "You're gonna be the best Quidditcher in Canada."

He smiles and kisses her on the head. "Thanks, Tay."

Sid's a muggle-born, he knows that there are some things magic can't replace, can't even mimic and that includes hard work, really hard work, the kind that leaves your muscles trembling and your stomach seizing and sweat dripping down your back.

The rest of his year is a blur of flying, aching muscles, Quidditch, more aching muscles, and just enough homework to keep him on top of his classwork.

He's out on the Quodpot fields whenever he can be, before breakfast, after dinner, and any spare time in between. There are exercises he learns from Neil, drills he finds in the library in huge training manuals packed full of theory, the after-dinner flying skills classes with Professor Cox. He finds on-ground drills too, cardio and core work, quaffle skills and reaction-training, shooting accuracy and spatial awareness.

There's so much to learn and so much more that just comes down to practice; repeating the same skill over and over again - over-the-shoulder shooting this week, dead-stops and tight turns the next, then barrel-rolls and upside-down flight.

By the end of spring term, he's the Mongoose's leading scorer. The team still loses more often than not, but now Sid can do something about it, can build a fifty point per game average.

The Mongooses don't really keep track of scores in an official way, but Sid starts marking them off on a piece of wrinkled parchment. He hangs it above his bed and looks at the tallies first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. Each night he dreams of flying.

The Mooses invite him along for a trial in April. They think he's joking when he tells them he's twelve and only been playing for seven months.

He makes the team.

_(Midge Cox has watched twenty years worth of children troop on and off her Quodpot fields._

_There's been tiny, fierce Kimi Decoteau who'd twice set the record for Trans-Atlantic speed flights; brilliant Abraham Anders, the three-time Quodpot League champion who'd never doubted himself for a second; world champion free flyer Glenda Most who'd near given Midge a heart attack with her tricks and jumps._

_The point is, she knows talent, that once in a generation spark that makes greatness into brilliance. Little Sidney Crosby doesn't have that._

_What he does have is quieter, less flashy. It has him on the fields before her every morning and staying until long after she leaves each evening. It's not brilliance, but it's something.)_

The Mooses come with more practices, a proper coach, and a diet plan. They also come with Jack Johnson.

Beater is a position with a steep learning curve. Most casual players don't have the balance to give a Bludger a really powerful, double-handed whack, let alone the skill to aim it at anyone or the muscle to make it do any damage. Jack is not a casual player.

Sid's first training session, he hears a fast whistling noise behind him and turns his head to check what it is. That's a mistake. Practice bludgers are cushion-charmed so as much as it feels like hitting concrete, it doesn't actually break his nose, only knocks him off his broom. Muddy, winded, and scrambling to his feet, he sees Jack grin at him and make "aw" faces. Sid's cheeks burn.

He takes five more bludgers that session. It's humiliating and painful, but it's also kind of amazing. This is fast Quidditch, the kind he dreams of playing, the kind that makes his blood sing and the aches melt away.

Sid bounces up to Jack at the end of the session when the team's packing away for the evening. Jack finishes wrestling a bludger back into its case then turns towards Sid, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest like he thinks there's gonna be trouble. "What do you—"

Sid cuts him off. "You're brilliant."

"Um thanks," says Jack, nonplussed.

"You wanna stick around for a while? Bet you can't knock me off my broom again."

Jack looks at him like he thinks Sid's nuts. Then he breaks into a grin. "Oh, you're on."

There are teammates and there are friends. Jack quickly becomes the latter.

It's an easy friendship, one they just slip into, simple as breathing. They're the same year, different dorms, but they share the same teachers and subjects. More importantly, they both love Quidditch more than anything. Extra training's a lot more fun when Jack's there to race against, to chirp at, to groan with afterwards.

It's Jack who introduces Sid to pro Quidditch.

It feels too stupid to say aloud, but it hadn't really occurred to him that Quidditch was a sport you could play for money, a sport that people watched in crowded stadiums with banners and food stands, that you could follow the stats and buy the jerseys. That had always seemed like it was for serious sports like Quodpot, hockey, and baseball, not Quidditch. Quidditch was played in empty fields with makeshift goal-hoops that you had to keep an eye on in strong winds.

Jack laughs at him, not mean but affectionate. "Idiot," he says fondly, putting Sid in a headlock and giving him a face-wash. "Quidditch is garbage here, but it's huge in Europe."

Sid wriggles away to gape at him.

"Really! All the kids play Quidditch instead of Quodpot. Each country's got their own league and then there's a bigger European league. It's their thing."

Jack pulls a pile of magazines out from under his bed. The top one has the words Quidditch Weekly emblazoned on the cover and a tall woman in full Quidditch leathers playing with a snitch on the front. She lets it almost get away before her hand snaps out and she grabs it back, grinning cockily up at them.

"She's a seeker?" Sid asks, immediately feeling stupid.

"Manon Rheaume," says Jack in the same hushed tone Sid's grandma had used in church.

Sid sniggers and elbows him. "Got a bit of a crush, eh?"

"What? No!" Jack sputters and looks affronted. "She's the best Canadian player in the world, you dumbass. Plays for the Braga Broomfleet, and she's won them the European Cup, like, three times."

He pushes the stack of magazines over, and they start going through them, lying flat on their stomachs on the floor of Jack's dorm. Sid's entranced, and Jack's talking a mile a minute, clearly has so much to say and is thrilled to have an eager audience. He mostly follows the Elite League, that's the British one, Sid learns, because all the coverage is in English and it’s where his mom used to play. There are thirteen teams in the League and, Jack assures him, the Ballycastle Bats are by far the best.

"Those are the Bats," he says proudly, pointing at a team in black leathers. "They're Irish, and their beaters are wicked." He gazes lovingly at the little figures, swooping in and out of complicated formations. "They've won the League more time than anyone - except the Magpies," he spits the word with uncharacteristic venom.

Sid hides a smile and tries not to think of his dad swearing at the TV when the Bruins beat the Habs.

They flick through the pages late into the night. Sid has so many questions, and Jack shows no sign of getting tired. So much of the magical world still seems like a fantasy: dragons and a magical ministry, banks run by goblins, giant floating ships, and now this, a professional Quidditch league on the other side of the world.

When Jack's dorm mates come in they migrate to Jack's bed, pulling the curtains shut around them and lowering their voices. "That's what I want, you know," says Jack, when they've been reading in comfortable silence for a while.

"What? To play in Ukraine?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "No. I mean, maybe." He hesitates, like he's afraid Sid will laugh at him. Sid looks up; Jack's never scared of anything.

"I want to play in Europe,” he says quietly. “To play real Quidditch. I know it's a long shot, but it's all I've wanted, ever since I was a kid."

"You'd be brilliant," says Sid. "Really! You're the best in our year by miles, you're so good; they'd be stupid if they don't see that." Sid's never been very good at expressing things in words, a rough hug or a playful elbow is so much easier, but he really means this. He looks hard at Jack, trying to convey just how serious he is.

Jack smiles and lies back on the bed. He's gazing at the curtains of the four-poster, but Sid doesn't think he's seeing it at all. "They're better over there, though. More competition too."

They're silent for a few minutes.

Jack's a brilliant beater, everyone knows that, too good for the Mooses really - he'll be playing with the Mooseheads the moment he's hit his growth spurt. He's just so good on a broom, aggressive and confident and so nimble. He's been flying since he was five. Sid closes his eyes and tries to push down the whole-body flush of jealousy.

"Fuck the competition," Sid says finally. "You've got this." Then he leans over and pokes Jack in the ribs, "Not when you're this scrawny though."

Jack squawks and hits him with a pillow until they're both giggling, and Jack's dormmates yell at them to shut up. Sid sneaks back to his bed that evening with his face aching from all the smiling.

_(Sid asks Trina if he can spend a week of his Easter vacation at Jack's house. He reels off a long list of their plans, stumbling over his words with excitement. They want to go flying in Jack's orchard, to visit the little local wizarding town and to try and spot merpeople on the beach._

_Apparently Jack's whole family are wizards, all a part of Sid's strange new world._

_It sounds like exactly the place a young wizard would want to spend his vacation._

_"Of course, baby," she says. "I'll have to speak to them first, but I don't see why not. Sounds like you'll have a great time." She means it too because he looks so happy, and Jack sounds like a good friend, the type of friend her kind-hearted boy deserves._

_Trina smiles at him as he tells her about his week, the charms classes, the potions that went wrong, and the flying. She smiles and tries not to feel like she's drowning.)_

By the time the year is drawing to a close, Sid is eating, sleeping, breathing Quidditch. He's earned a spot as reserve chaser for the Mooses, not a star by any means but a solid back-up for injuries or academic clashes.

He spends more time than ever on the Quodpot field, getting there before anyone, before Professor Cox even, and spending hours on drills, flying until his thighs burn and his lungs ache from the cold morning air. He's back again at lunch time and after school with Jack, squeezing every last second of flight time out of the lengthening summer days.

He tries not to think about the long holiday ahead. He loves his family, he really does, and he misses them so much during term time. But going home means no flying, no flying for whole months on end. The thought becomes a leaden weight of anxiety and slow-bubbling panic that sits heavy in the pit of his stomach. Every time someone mentions summer - and sometimes it feels like his classmates talk of nothing else - it gets heavier, expanding to tighten his lungs and throat, enough that sometimes he thinks it'll choke him, he'll breathe in, and there'll be nothing but panic.

Sid can't even talk about it with anyone. His mom would be devastated if she knew how much he dreaded coming home, and Jack wouldn't get it. Not Jack with his own broom, his wizarding neighbours, and his garden shaded by huge trees, who never has to choose between Quidditch and family. Sid tries not to be bitter about that, he really does.

It's just that he's already so behind, years behind.

He's getting better. Professor Cox tells him he's progressing exceptionally well, and he can feel himself getting better, the turns getting tighter, the acceleration faster. But that's because he's practicing hard, out-working everyone else. He can't do that without a broom, without a place to practice. He can't fall behind again; he just can't.

Mottlefont doesn't lend brooms over the summer, too much of a risk of losing them, of getting caught by muggles and the blame coming back to the school. Professor Cox explains all this very kindly and says that they do a bulk buy of brooms at the end of every year, it's a big discount and they welcome students to order through them.

Fifty galleons.

Sid doesn't even bother with the mental maths.

He remembers hours of calculations with his mom, sitting down half a world away in their small kitchen table with paper and a biro. He remembers her whispered conversation with his dad afterwards, he remembers serious conversations about responsibility and finances and exchange rates. He doesn't need the details to know that fifty galleons is too much.

He flushes and shakes his head, staring at the well-trod grass of the Quodpot field. He knows that's rude and can hear his mom telling him so, that it's polite to answer with his words, but well, he doesn't trust his voice right now.

She waits for a few seconds then sighs. "Muggle-born?" she says. It's a question, but they both already know the answer.

It's the final week of term when Professor Cox pulls him into her office, less an office than a shack really, a small wooden lodge at the entrance to the fields. It's bigger on the inside than the outside which makes Sid double-take. He's seen that trick a hundred times now, but it's always disconcerting, a reminder that this world has its own rules, that he doesn't understand them. The room is cluttered with old broomsticks, boxes of Quodpot equipment, safety gear, and flying robes. She waves her hand absently at a chair in front of her desk.

Sid takes a seat.

"I talked to your professors," she says without preamble.

He stares at her and tries to swallow back the worry building in his chest. His marks are decent, he hasn't skipped any classes - even when he's really wanted to - and he can't think of any rules he might have broken.

The worry must show on his face because she smiles. "You don't need to be worried. You're a good flyer, Sid, really good, and we want to support you in this. There's a scholarship fund for children who show potential but might need a little financial help to build on that."

Sid blinks at her.

She digs out a piece of parchment from her desk and slides it across to him. "Take this home, okay, and show it to your mom and dad. They'll need to sign it and then you can return it to me."

Sid leaves the office with the paper clutched tight to his chest, heart beating double-time, trying not to hope.

_(As it happens there is a scholarship fund, one established by Abraham Anders exclusively for first year Quodpot players._

_There had also been a little money left over in the year's equipment budget, and now there is a less than truthful report on a misplaced broom._

_North America is full of British immigrants. There's a Welsh woman in Midge's Quodpot rec team, a close friend, a muggle-born. She arrived in Canada from Wales in 1997 with empty eyes, the wand in her hand, and the clothes on her back._

_Midge knows her faults. She's not brave, she's not an activist, she's not the type to change the world. But she can do this.)_

Sid gets the scholarship.

He finds a small note of parchment in his pigeon hole just after breakfast, on the penultimate day of term. Then he sets off running at full pelt down to the Quodpot fields.

Professor Cox beams as she presents him with a second-hand Nimbus 2000.

The paint's peeling, a few tail sticks are coming out at odd angles, the cushioning charm is clearly wearing off, and it belongs to Sid. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

When he heads to bed that evening, he takes the broom with him, not to fly it but because he doesn't want to let it out of his sight. He still can't believe it's his, that he owns a broomstick. He completes his homework with it propped up against his bed. Somehow, when it's surrounded by the jumbled mess of clothes, robes, and books of his dorm, it feels more real.

The tense knot of sick panic in his stomach begins to dissolve, and when he says goodbye to Jack, to his dormmates, to his team, he doesn't even feel sad. He just can't wait to be home.

That summer, his dad helps him empty out the basement. They take out the spare bed frame, the storage boxes, the Christmas decorations, and the boxes of old photographs. Then they dig out some foam pipe padding and line the floor with enough cushioning that a fall won't break Sid's ribs, probably.

His mom takes one look at the place and insists he wear a hockey helmet. Dad looks a little abashed and is quick to agree.

Without any furniture, it's a decent sized room. Admittedly it's nothing compared to being outside - certainly no room for ascending, descending, or building up any sort of speed - but Sid's not fussy. It's a space free from prying eyes, and he has a broom.

He still can't believe he owns a broom.

He'd explained all the stats to mom and dad on the first day home. When he'd finished with them, he'd explained them to Taylor. She had listened attentively, interjecting "why" at all the right moments and only trying to eat the foot supports once. Sid can't wait to take her flying one day, when he's good enough.

He brings it up to the living room in the evenings sometimes, just to admire it, straighten up the tail, and sand out the splinters in the handle. Mom laughs and warns him not to take it to bed, or he'll end up with bugs in the sheet. Dad brings over a few rolls of hockey tape, and they put together a makeshift grip.

Sid's never seen anyone tape their broom before. He suspects he'll get shit from the guys for it when he goes back to Mottlefont but, with his dad talking eagerly about aerodynamism and sweat-adsorption, he can't bring himself to care. Anyway, he always used to like taping his hockey stick, it's therapeutic and, well, it reminds him of home. He likes the way it looks too, clean and practical and indisputably muggle.

He spends that summer, and all the rest of them, zooming around the basement. It's brilliant for tight manoeuvring and balance work, the kind of mindless repetition that trains muscles so well. He uses a soccer ball to bounce off the walls as well; it's not quite the right shape, but the weight is good, and it's harder to grip, a nice challenge. His ball skills aren't as lacking as his flying, but it's all practice, it's all heading in the right direction.

Sid doesn't say what he's practicing for, not even to himself. Maybe he's a coward, maybe he doesn't want to jinx it, maybe the dream - the hope, the wish - is just too fragile, too much like smoke to survive contact with the air.

He tells himself he wants to make the Mooseheads. It's not a lie.

_(Troy doesn't understand his son's world. He doesn't understand crups and kneazles, Quidditch and quills, muggle-borns and merpeople._

_But Troy does understand dreams._

_He dreamed of the NHL, all those long years ago, of standing between the posts in a Canadiens jersey with his own name stitched across the back. It didn't happen. He found new dreams, dreams of Trina and their little family, of Sidney and Taylor. But, God, Troy remembers what it was like to dream, to want something so much and so long and so deep that the ache carved itself into his chest._

_If this is Sid's dream, if he's got a chance, then it's worth tearing up the basement, it's worth losing him for months on end, it's worth the heartache and the worry. It's worth it all.)_

Sid makes the Mooseheads the first term of his sixth year.

He walks back up to the castle after tryouts on shaky legs, still trying to force down the vomit that's churning up his stomach, to stop himself from collapsing to the ground and sobbing with relief and wild joy.

Jack collides with him in the entrance and pulls him tight into a bone-crunching hug.

"I told you you'd make it," he yells into Sid's ear. "I fucking told you."

Sid grins at him, sweaty and exhausted. There's enough relief in Jack's voice that he was definitely less certain than he's letting on.

It doesn't matter. He's made it.


	2. Chapter 2

The Mooseheads take fourteen players. Of those, there are ten European transfers, one American, and three Canadians.

Sid had known all that intellectually. He hadn't realised how much stepping into the locker room would feel like stepping into a different world.

The rest of the Mottlefont Quidditch club mingles: the Mooses, the Mongooses, even the kids who only make it to the odd pick-up game. They all come along to socials and games evenings, the older students sneaking in illicit butterbeer and telling tall tales about the ghoul who haunts the Quodpot field. They all waste their evenings on a joke sport and that's a kind of familiarity which breeds in-jokes and fondness. It’s nice, the sense of community; it had meant a lot to Sid as a lonely second year.

The Mooseheads had never joined in. They'd always stuck to themselves, appearing at club meetings to demand the best training slots and the largest chunk of the funding, then retreating back into haughty solitude. That had never endeared them to the rest of the club.

Sid's beginning to get it now.

The Mooseheads aren't here to play a school sport.

In some ways, it's like any other locker room Sid's been in. There's the pranks, the terrible chirps, and the aggressive flirting. There's also a whole lot more Quidditch talk.

Professional Quidditch used to be something that Sid and Jack would bring up on the seeing mirror on weekends and chat about over breakfast; just the highlights, which team was at the top of the league, which game had lasted twenty-six hours, and which seeker had fallen 50m to break five ribs. But that's all it had been: entertainment and maybe a way to pick up some fun new moves to try out in training.

It's not like that with the Mooseheads.

The magical world is small, the world of competitive Quidditch players is smaller still. When they talk about the Egyptian super-star rookie, it's because they’ve been seeing her at elite training camps since she was eight. Sid's new center has a brother playing with the Bigonville Bombers. The team's keeper won’t shut up about a contract he’s already got with the Wigtown Wanderers.

"That's because his mom owns their main sponsor," Jack tells Sid later, when they're working on transfiguring furniture. His tone's bitter. "Pro Quidditch is nepotistic as fuck."

Sid elbows him. "Nepotistic's a long word for you."

Jacks eyes him loftily and ignores the jab to focus on the five-legged stool in front of them.

Jack would never say it, but Sid knows he worries. Beater, more than any other position, needs strong chemistry; to know without looking, without even thinking, what your partner's planning. It's hard to build that when all the other beaters are on the other side of the world, hard to impress scouts when you play with a new exchange student every year.

"If they're that loaded, maybe they'll sponsor us," says Sid. "I could use some new gear."

Jack grins. "Wow, what a treat for the rest of us," he says, leaning in to sniff at Sid’s clothes and grimace theatrically. "We'll have to bully him into it, huh."

_(It’s a few weeks before Sid realises that he’s the only muggle-born on the team._

_It's not a topic that comes up often; Sid's not even sure that anyone else has noticed._

_But it's weird. North America is full of mixed families, proper purebloods - the kind whose names appear in history books and can trace their parentage back centuries - are the minority at Mottlefont - and the Mooses and Mongooses were full of players who bemoaned the lack of hockey and baseball._

_It makes sense that Europe has more of those old families around. It's still weird.)_

So, yeah, Sid’s new teammates are a little obnoxious, but he can put up with that. Hell, Sid would put up with a whole team of rich dickheads to play at this level.

It's a group of people who, for once, care about Quidditch almost as much as Sid does. He's no longer the only one trying too hard in training, with a meal plan and an on-ground training regimen, staying afterwards for extra pointers and tips, reading up on strategy and theory in his free time.

They have a proper coach too. Dale Jones played on the Welsh national team for five years; he's barrel-chested, missing two teeth, with a voice like a fog horn. Their very first session, he spends twenty minutes lecturing them about correct broom grips. Sid's not exactly endeared, but a week later his flying’s better, so that’s worth it.

Even the social side eases up. Life at a small boarding school means that Sid knows everyone in his year too well - everyone in the years above and below as well. It's not often he meets new people of his own age. While most of the transfer students, with their stories of the European Quidditch scene and their elite summer camps, are uninterested in the Canadians filling out their roster, some are more friendly.

The new seeker bounces up to Sid after their first week and introduces himself, through a translating charm, a thick accent and a wicked grin, as Flower.

"Flower?" Sid asks, grinning helplessly. It's partly because he really doesn't know what kind of weird names they come up with in France, but mostly because he thinks there must be a story behind that.

"Yup," says Flower, still beaming. "It's because of my flowery personality."

The next week, Sid kicks off on his broom only to find that the cushioning charm has been muted. He lets out a sound he didn't know he could make and topples onto the ground to the raucous laughter of his team.

They let him examine his broom, baffled, for about five minutes before Coach yells at them to get going. Then Flower comes over, all innocent eyes and faux sympathy, fixes the issue with a complicated wave of his wand and pulls Sid to his feet.

Sid isn't quite sure what happened there, but when Flower sits down next to him at dinner that evening and starts chattering in an unholy mix of French, English and Quidditch, it feels like the start of something.

The year soon settles into a pattern, victories and defeats, weird pains and aching muscles, late-night celebrations and early morning training sessions.

Individual progress can be hard to track in a team sport, when you're all developing together, going through the same ups and downs, so it's not until March that the realisation hits: Sid isn't the worst on the team, not by a long shot.

These guys have been playing since before they could walk, they're on top-model brooms, some even getting look-ins from Elite League scouts, and Sid's not outmatched anymore. He's not the best, sure, but he can hold his own, sometimes do more than hold his own.

Sid's spent so long being five steps behind, racing to catch up, scrabbling to cling onto a place in the team, that he'd almost forgotten what confidence felt like; how it can make you feel ten feet tall, can have you walking onto the pitch with a bounce in your steps and a smile on your face.

It reflects in his game. He feels it in the surge of wild adrenaline when he tears off on a breakaway towards the goal hoops, when he slips cleanly through the lines of an opponent's defensive formation, when he spins recklessly towards the ground and spirals out of the range of a bludger.

It’s brilliant.

It also doesn’t make Sid very popular. No one likes being out-performed by someone they’re supposed to be walking all over.

It doesn’t affect games - no one’s stupid enough to risk Jones’ wrath like that - but the banter around his corner of the locker room begins to dry up. If it’s there at all it’s sharp-tongued and cutting, nothing like the laughing camaraderie of the Mooses.

That’s okay. Sid has Jack and Flower and Quidditch. He can make do.

_(Sometimes, after a week that's blurred into hard drills, hard hits, and hard homework, Sid heads down to the Mongooses' pick-up games._

_The club's changed since Sid was in his first year. Someone's managed to charm an old radio into blasting out a mixture of pop and wizarding folk. It's a popular addition, eliciting impromptu singalongs and attempts at wobbly mid-air dancing._

_The club's grown too, expanding into the neighbouring fields for up to eight simultaneous games. There's even talk of creating a fourth school team. Apparently the necessity of rhyming naming conventions is set to be a hot topic at the next full club meeting._

_Sid’s changed too. He's indisputably the best player there and spends more time helping first years stay on their brooms than chasing the Quaffle. They thank him politely, looking up with big worshipful eyes._

_It's hard to believe he was ever that small.)_

Jones never says anything, just grunts a greeting when he finds Sid practicing in the early mornings, but he's a good coach. He notices who's getting to the Quaffle, who's setting up the goals, who's got a tactical eye on the opposing seeker. By the time their end-of-year rivalry match with the Haileybury Hammers comes round, Sid's off the reserve list.

He doesn’t make a big deal out of it in the locker room - doesn’t want to put any noses out of joint. But Jack pounds him excitedly on the shoulders, and he owls the news home to Taylor that very evening.

The game itself ends up being long and tough, prompting more exhausted relief than celebration when Flower pulls the snitch out from behind a Haileybury beater. Still, a win is a win, and with nine goals and eleven assists to his name, Sid can hardly complain.

Before they floo back to Mottlefont , Jones pulls him aside to introduce him to an older woman. She's tall and wiry, with the kind of physique that comes from a lifetime of hard exercise, and there's a piece of parchment floating in front of her.

"You play well," she says, reaching out to give him a firm handshake. "Sidney Crosby, is it?"

Sid nods cautiously. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"I'm surprised that I haven't come across you before," she says, eyeing him critically. "Usually a player of your calibre would have been on my radar for a while."

He forces a too wide smile. "Well, I came to Quidditch a bit late."

She's not really listening. "Of course, of course, muggle-born." She pauses and asks, more intent now, "But you are Canadian?"

Something fizzes in Sid's belly. "Canadian as they come."

Team Canada is something of an international laughing stock.

He's told this on the first day of training camp by his new teammates - a few he knows from Mottlefont , but most are unfamiliar. They tell him with great pride that Canada only qualified to move up into the top international division last year, narrowly beating out Liechtenstein. Expectations are at an all-time low.

"If we win a single game," Kathy, Sid's new captain, says wistfully, “it will be a fucking miracle.”

"Or if we don't lose a game by more than five hundred points, eh," adds one of the beaters, shit-eating grin stretched wide across his face.

"Oh, that's definitely gonna happen," says Kathy. "Especially if we get stuck in a pool with Russia."

"Or Senegal,” begins their seeker, Jay, “Or France or Moldova or—” He's drowned out by a chorus of groans.

It’s a weird team atmosphere, weird but good. They’re the best players in Canada, but there’s no jealousy or intra-team competition, no weight of parental pressure or national disgrace. They're all just wildly excited to be there, collecting stories to tell their grandkids: a few glorious games with the next generation of Quidditch super-stars from around the world - Alex Ovechkin, Hilary Knight, Kquewanda Bailey, Tuukka Rask.

The training camp lasts four weeks, during which they cobble together their lines and strategies and enough chemistry that they'll be able to put up a good fight: do any watching Canadians proud.

They even get given - "just in time," mutters their relieved coach - a full set of Quidditch gear each, everything from leathers to boots to trousers, all brand new and coloured a brilliant red with clean white highlights.

Sid lays them out on his bed and reverently traces the letters emblazoned across the back, CROSBY. He's going to play Quidditch for Canada. A Crosby is going to play Quidditch for Canada.

He gets Brad, the beater he's rooming with, to take a picture of him all decked up in his new robes. Brad finds the muggle technology a combination of hilarious and fascinating and bullies Sid mercilessly for being a 'mama's boy,' but they're both grinning so hard that the chirps don't mean much of anything.

_(Troy sticks the pictures up on the fridge._

_He’s been along to a few of Sid's games, enough that he thinks he gets it, what Sid sees in Quidditch. The speed, the ferocity, the team-work: it's not so very different from hockey._

_Maybe there'll always be a part of him that resents that school, that sport, that whole damn world. For taking Sid and his brilliance and all his glowing potential, and cutting out the parts they didn't like, the parts that didn't fit, the Nova Scotia boy with his family back home._

_But Sid's smiling at the camera, near glowing with happiness and decked head to toe in Canadian colours._

_For now, Troy can't bring himself to be anything less than proud fit to bursting.)_

The 2004 Quidditch Junior World Cup is held in Germany. That turns out not to matter very much: a field just outside a small town in Germany is pretty similar to a field just outside a small town in Canada.

To keep in line with the International Statute of Secrecy, the whole place is warded to its roots, and the stadium is a temporary structure, designed to be easily vanished away at the end of the tournament.

He and a few teammates rush down to the main stadium immediately on arrival, making it just in time to catch the French playing the Haitians. Waving their player's ID cards at the attendant is enough to get her to drop the repulsion charm and wave them into the viewing area. They stake out a small patch of floor, drag over a few chairs, then settle in to watch.

It’s beyond anything Sid could have imagined.

It’s not just the standard of play - though that's mind blowing - but the atmosphere, the way the crowd roars for every shot, rises and screams for every goal. There are full-stadium chants - sometimes rude, sometimes supportive, sometimes incomprehensible - bellowed out until the air seems to reverberate with sound and enthusiasm. The seating area is awash with patriotic outfits and bizarre magical merchandise - dancing hats, strange binoculars and colour-shifting flags.

It all feels a very long way from an overgrown patch of grass at the back of Mottlefont.

The French are clearly the better team. They're fifty points ahead when Flower goes into a brilliant feint that has the Haitian seeker heading in completely the wrong direction; he levels out with hair in his eyes and something gold clenched in his fist. Sid watches as the crowd explodes with riotous celebrations, showers of blue-white-red sparks and impromptu firework displays.

Sid catches Flower on his way back to the locker rooms for a heart-felt congratulations and a quick catch-up. He ends up with an invitation to join the French team for post-victory drinks and spends the evening being bullied mercilessly for the pitiful state of Canadian Quidditch and for his inability to hold his Butterbeer.

It's a pretty great start.

After the first week, Sid is already wishing that the tournament could last forever. There’s no school, no distractions, no domineering teammates, just Quidditch all day, every day. If he's not playing, then he’s training, or talking with other players, or even just watching the games, basking in the crowd’s excitement.

He’s learning so much too. In theory they're all qualified to be there, all the best in the world. In practice, some of the players are on a whole different level.

The Finns have their super-star keeper, Tuukka Rask, who plays more aggressively than their beaters. The Irish chaser formations are tight and disciplined, moving between themselves so fast that Sid's eyes can barely keep up. The Malawi side have a daringly creative two-beaters-and-a-chaser pincer method of hemming in the opposing team's seeker.

And even they've got nothing on the Russians. Sid tries to catch as many games as he can, but he watches the Russians religiously.

They're the easy favourite for the tournament, aggressive play paired with fierce intelligence and more star power than all of North America combined. Their chasers, Ovechkin, Malkin, and Radulov are brilliant - national heroes already, their names emblazoned on banners and robes across the stadium. They've got the kind of chemistry you just can't teach; the Quaffle flying between the three of them like it's magnetised, pulled to their fingers from nowhere, then straight through the goal hoops.

Sid watches as they rack up a score of two hundred and sixty against Portugal. He's supposed to be catching up with Jack, who's there with the American side, but the Quidditch ends up being far more interesting

"Ugh, that’s fucking filthy," says Jack after another ridiculous goal from Ovechkin, scored ten metres from the hoops.

Sid hums distractedly.

Jack’s not wrong. Ovechkin's shooting is absurd; powerful and direct; even when the keeper knows where the Quaffle's coming from, she's helpless to stop it.

Sid just keeps finding his eyes drawn to the player to his right. Evgeni Malkin has all the same speed and skill as Ovechkin, and something else besides. He's got a wild originality, an easy dominance that has him cutting through opposing players like they're not even there. Sid's never seen anyone play like that, not even the pro players he's watched can match it - Malkin's terrifying combination of power and speed that Sid just can't look away from.

When Russia is up by over three hundred, the Portuguese seeker finally puts his team out of their misery. Sid watches as the Russians dismount, whooping with joy and rushing in for painful-looking hug piles. Malkin completes a complicated fist-bump with Radulov, and Sid swallows down a sudden surge of longing.

Canada hadn’t ended up in a pool with Russia. At the time, they’d been relieved but that’s quickly souring into regret. Sure, they'd have lost embarrassingly, but they're losing all their games anyway. It would be worth losing by a few extra hundred to play opposite Malkin - not just to watch from afar but to go head-to-head with his speed, to try to keep up with his dynamism.

Sid ditches Jack and the Americans to loiter in the players’ area. He tells them that he wants to double-check tomorrow’s timings, tells himself that too. He hangs around awkwardly for a few hours until the room has emptied out and he’s left alone. Eventually he gives up, returning to the dorms on his own.

Whatever, Sid’s got other things to focus on.

Their final game is against England, and it’s a big one - the big one.

Canada-England may not be a traditional rivalry, but for now both teams have half the world watching and a whole lot to lose.

For England, it's a pride thing. England's a Quidditch nation; the results of these games make front page news, their fans have packed the stadium all week only to watch them lose every game but one. If they lose to Canada too, it'll be a national humiliation.

For Canada, it's an elimination game. If they want to come back to the big leagues next year, they need this one, and Sid really wants to come back.

The moment the whistle blows, they're at each other. All the tournament games have been fast-paced, played at bruising intensity, but this one feels more so than most.

Sid gets in fast, swipes the Quaffle out of the hands of his opposite number, ducks a bludger for his trouble and tears off down the field. It's beginning to rain, only light spitting but enough to wet his broom handle, and the grey of the clouds suggests there's more to come. He spirals upwards, straight into the oncoming wind and the biting rain, then drops the Quaffle down to Kathy when the opposing chasers follow him.

Their first two scoring chances are deflected by the keeper, the third, a wicked shot from Ritchie, bounces off the goal hoop and the resulting groan from the crowd is audible even over the thundering rain. Two minutes later, the Quaffle fumbles through cold fingers and England get a breakaway. They've capitalised with a goal before the beaters can even get back to defend.

The game becomes a mad scramble to keep up with England's scoring, to hang on to slippery brooms and to avoid the increasingly vicious beaters. They're ten points behind, then twenty, then forty.

It's a game made scrappy by desperation, the kind where their opposite numbers stick so close that the standard jostling escalates into elbowing and then a fully-fledged aerial wrestling match between Lin and an English chaser.

Their time-out is filled with cursing, complaints, strapping up ankles and wrists with charmed support tape, and in Sid's case, replacing the sodden hockey tape on his broom. Kathy has never been one for big speeches; just a vehement, "C'mon, guys. Let's fucking do this," as they head back out to the pitch.

They're twenty furious minutes into the game again, when Sid sees the opposing seeker fall into a dive. She's coming towards him, lying flat along her broom, speeding towards the foot of the goal hoops. Jay is a few feet behind her, small, nimble, and brilliantly fast, but not fast enough.

Sid drops the Quaffle, twists on the spot and swerves sharply into her path; there's a bone-crunching thud, and his shoulder screams as she slams into him before spinning wildly off course, then a crazed roar from the crowd. All Sid hears is an exhilarated shriek from Jay.

The rest is a blur, a mad charge to dismount, sloshing through the muddy ground and into a wild celebration. Sid doesn't know who he's hugging, whose arms are around his neck and who's yelling madly into his ear. They're all dripping wet, so coated in sweat and dirt and rain that the white of their leathers has dissolved into a mass of muddy brown.

"We're shit," Kathy shouts, fierce glee clear even through the pounding rain and shrieks of joy. "Total shit, guys."

Jay punches her in the shoulder, but he's grinning madly too.

Sid's whole body is one giant bruise, he can taste mud in the back of his throat, and he has never been so happy.

He wants this feeling to last forever.

He and Jack spend an extra week in Europe; trans-Atlantic portkeys are expensive, and it seems a shame to spend all their trip in a German backwater.

They visit Flower, who drags them around wizarding Paris and laughs as Sid tries out his rusty Québécois. Then Jack makes them mug for cheesy tourist photos in front of the Eiffel Tower. Sid gets his revenge with a day spent trawling through muggle museums, the Louvre, the Rodin, the Musée d'Orsay, until Jack sits down and physically refuses to go any further.

It's a good week, and the days slip past like quicksilver. They spend their final evening with a bottle of ill-begotten firewhisky, just talking.

The Americans had done slightly better than the Canadians, second-last in their pool rather than dead last. Jack had played particularly well and had even attracted some attention for knocking the Welsh keeper's front teeth out. It had been a nasty hit though, and Sid tells him so.

"Like you can talk," laughs Jack, mock affronted. "What about when you hit that seeker? Nearly knocked her off her broom! And she was fucking tiny, you dickhead."

Sid blushes. "We needed the win."

"Sure, you did," Jack says, rolling his eyes. "The Brits are shit. Losing to them'd just be embarrassing."

"How did they get so bad?" asks Sid. "I thought, I don’t know, I thought they were supposed to be really good."

Jack snorts. "That's what a fucking war will get you."

"What?" It jumps out before he has time to reconsider, and Sid blushes. He hates moments like this, when he feels stupid and uninformed. There's no reason to; this isn't his world, and he knows how ignorant wizards are of muggle events, but it still stings. "I didn't... They had a war?"

Jack immediately looks like he regrets the comment. "I mean, I'm not exactly an expert," he says hesitantly, like Sid hasn't watched him nearly fail History of Magic three years running.

"Come on, you can't say something like that and just leave it." Sid can feel a bit of whine creeping into his voice which is embarrassing but useful. Jack hates it when he whines.

"Fine," Jack groans. "You should probably ask someone else when we get back though."

"Yeah, yeah."

"The Brits had a war in, like," Jack pauses for a second, clearly doing some maths, "the mid-nineties. It ended the year before we went to Mottlefont so must have been 1998?"

Sid props himself up on his elbows and nods encouragingly.

"It was, it was really bad. This dark wizard came to power, took over their ministry, and they killed a lot of people, especially muggles and..." He trails off and looks at Sid awkwardly. "A lot of muggle-borns too. They said only pure-bloods could do magic, that kind of stuff."

The room's very quiet all of a sudden, the only sound their breathing and Sid's heart hammering in his ears.

Jack swallows and continues. "They beat him in the end, but I think a lot of Brits with muggle blood decided to stay abroad or stick with the muggles, or they just never learnt magic to begin with. So, like, for Quidditch, since about 2000, the English national team's been garbage. They're stuck with a tiny selection of pure-bloods because there's this whole generation of missing kids who never picked up the game, or are abroad or they're... yeah."

Dead, Sid's mind fills in, they're dead. He thinks back to the English team; wonders what they could have looked like, who he would have played opposite. A ghost team, he thinks, and feels the hairs on the back of neck prickle.

There's a few minutes of quiet. Jack looks supremely uncomfortable, like he's not sure whether to make a joke or give Sid a hug or just go to sleep. Sid doesn't know what he wants, he's numb but for the sudden wild urge to floo his mom.

The clock on the wall ticks away the passing seconds, minutes.

"It's not like that anymore," Jack says into the silence. "That was ages ago. Things are different now."

Sid hums an agreement and tries for a smile, but it feels wobbly.

_(He’d always known the wizarding attitude towards muggles was fucked up. He’s known that since he was eleven and being laughed at for using a biro in class._

_But that... that’s… Sid doesn’t know. He hadn’t known.)_

They return to Mottlefont a week later.

It’s a new year, new season, new transfer students.

There’s something else: Sid knows what he wants to do with his life now. He also knows that he's not going to be able to do it in Canada, not to the standard he wants.

Sid doesn't give up on his school work - his parents have taught him better than that, and he knows that, as much as won’t use it, having a back-up is sensible - but it takes a back seat, Quidditch expanding to swallow up all his free time.

He takes the training up a notch, incorporates suggestions from the Team Canada coaches, from other players, from Professor Cox. He keeps up with the foreign leagues too, especially with the talent-starved Elite League; who’s looking for chasers, who’s got reliable management, who’s rebuilding and who’s plummeting down the standings.

If he keeps an eye on certain players too then that's only to be expected. Flower's his friend and he's doing amazing things with the Quiberon Quafflepunchers. Scanning coverage of the Russian league for one particular name, well, Sid's pretty sure that counts as research - no matter what Jack and his raised eyebrows have to say about it.

_(Sid sits Trina and Troy down over his last Christmas break. He lays out his plan, the dates of the major exposition games and trial weeks, the breakdown of food and accommodation costs, the friends he'll be seeing and staying with._

_Trina hums and nods and asks the appropriate questions. Mostly, she's just watching him: her baby who's not a baby anymore, not even a child, a young man. It's moments like this when she can see the Troy in him, the resolute set of his chin and the determination in his voice._

_He has the same tells as Troy too; the way he fiddles with his fingers when he's doubting himself._

_She pushes down the thoughts of what could go awfully, catastrophically wrong, of how long it would take to get to him in Europe, of how alone he'd be on the other side of the ocean._

_"And you'll get us tickets for your first game?" she asks._

_Sid beams at her, and she can see the relief in his eyes._

_It doesn't seem fair sometimes: how much loving Sidney is about letting him go.)_

The last day of his final year, Sid slips away from the end-of-term party, takes his broom and heads down to the Quidditch fields.

The evening light is fading fast, throwing the world into a patchwork of grey shadow and thickening gloom. Anywhere else, Sid might use his wand to light the way, but he knows this path. He's walked it a million and one times, early mornings and late evenings, triumphant in victory and desolate in loss.

He reaches the field and kicks off into a series of slow loops round the field. The only visible movement is the wisps of his breath in the air and the only sound the quiet flap of his robes.

Sid's not one for what-ifs, for doubting and second-guessing; he's interested in the present, in his body and what it can do, in the here and now. It's hard not to wonder though, how different his life might have been if not for this familiar patch of grass with its makeshift goal hoops.

He's slow to leave. Time, which had been slipping past so fast, seems to finally have slowed to a crawl and he can catch his breath; like if he just keeps his steady looping then the night might not come to the end, he could stay here and play with the Mooseheads for just one more year. It's a pleasant thought, comforting, familiar like a worn blanket.

In the end his cold fingers and toes drive him back up to the castle. There's a party to rejoin, and Jack might even have some firewhisky left.

He doesn't look back. Somehow that would feel too final.

Sid gets a portkey out to England the day after school ends. He has no pro offers, no agent, and no interested parties.

If he's honest with himself, he hadn't been expecting much else. No matter how much Jack - kind, well-intentioned Jack with his sure offer from the Kenmare Kestrels - had reassured him that something would come along, Sid had always been more realistic.

The world is changing but not fast. The wizarding community is insular and tight-knit, the Quidditch community even more so, and what entry routes there are for muggle-born players are not found in Canada.

That's okay. If there's anything Mottlefont has taught Sid, it's how to work for what he wants - not by shortcuts or charm or family connections, but by putting in the hours.

Sid's put in the hours; he’s done the research. He has the stack of Quidditch Weeklys on his desk to prove it, all the recruiting reports carefully annotated, and the dates of the British and Irish Quidditch Elite League Exhibition Day highlighted and colour-coded.

He’s going to play pro Quidditch.

The exhibition week goes well, or as well as these things can go.

His accent gets a few raised eyebrows.

"American, huh?" asks a greying witch, while they're waiting in line for a shootout. "Don't see many of your lot over here."

"Canadian," Sid says, then shrugs sheepishly. "There's not a lot of Quidditch back home."

"'Course not. All about Quodpot isn't it?"

Sid hums an agreement.

She shakes her head in amusement, then summons her broom. "Weird old sport that one."

She gets three shots out of five. Sid gets all five.

The exhibition has a truly wild range of people. Sid meets everyone from twenty year Elite League vets who're hoping for one last season, to recent Hogwarts grads fresh from their school teams, to those who barely know one end of the broom from the other.

That's why Sid's there: it's open to all, no entry requirements.

Some say that makes it a publicity stunt, a way to deflect from accusations of nepotism in the league. Sid is told this in varying tones of bitterness by no less than seven of his fellow attendees.

"Your first time?" asks a chaser, a muscular guy who looks a few years older than Sid.

Sid nods.

"Don't get your hopes up," the chaser says, between gulps of water. "Been trying for years. Some years, they haven't even sent scouts."

Sid doesn't say anything, just grimaces sympathetically. Partly because he's out of breath, mostly because he doesn't know how to respond to that.

Maybe he's right, but maybe not. British Quidditch is in shoddy shape, they're in desperate need of players - whether that's from abroad, from non-traditional backgrounds, from wherever they can find them.

The clubs have certainly sent scouts this year.

Sid tries not to watch them too closely, tries not to think about them too hard, or make too much of how they stop to scribble on their parchments. He just flies.

Sid spends the days that he's not flying between expositions at Jack's small flat in Kenmare. It's a one-bedroom, not really big enough for the two of them. Sid had brought up his staying elsewhere at the beginning of the summer, but Jack wouldn't hear of it.

"Then who'll cook me soggy pasta?" he'd laughed. Apparently Sid can't compare to twenty years of house-elf food. Still, it's not like Jack's any better.

Jack acts like having him to stay is no big deal, and Sid's grateful for that; he's a good friend. The exchange rate has never done Sid any favours, and he doesn't know how long he'll be in Europe, how long he can chase a dream.

"How'd it go?" asks Jack, when Sid's arrived in his little living room and finished coughing up a lungful of floo powder. "They still working you hard?"

Sid collapses at the table, drops his head into his arms, and groans, "I've drunk so much Pepperup that I'm turning green."

Jack cackles unsympathetically and continues paging through Quidditch Weekly. "Don't front, it's a week of Quidditch. Isn't that your idea of paradise?"

Sid doesn't dignify that with a response. It may be true, but his whole body aches, and he deserves to whine a little.

"There's been a lot of talk about the exhibition this year," Jack says. "Trade market's really heating up. Apparently the Kestrels are shopping Clearwater, so they'll probably have scouts down there watching you guys. Don't know if we'll be able to get rid of her though. Maybe the Cannons'll bite - they're desperate enough - or the Tornados."

Sid lets Jack ramble, and tries not to let his eyes flutter closed. He likes Quidditch talk, even when he's too tired to participate much. It's comforting listening to Jack talk - interesting too. He gets a different angle on the league now that he's one of them.

"Speaking of, what about Malkin, huh?"

"What about him?" Sid asks sleepily.

"Oh wow," says Jack, sounding very pleased with himself. "You really haven't been keeping up."

Sid lifts his head out of his arms, suddenly alert. "What?"

"He's been traded," Jack says with relish.

Sid stares. "No."

"Yup."

"No way have they traded Malkin."

Jack looks at him, way too knowing for Sid's liking.

"But," stutters Sid. "I mean, he's the best player Tula has."

"Not anymore," says Jack, looking amused.

Sid gapes.

"Gone to the Falcons in the expansion draft."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah, and even better," Jack pauses, clearly enjoying Sid hanging onto his every word. "Apparently Malkin requested it."

Sid gapes some more, then finds his voice. "But Tulskiye are good! They're, like, third in their league at the moment."

Jack shrugs. "I don't know, man. All I've heard is that he wanted out, and the only people happy about it are the Falcons." He pauses, then adds with a smirk, "Which means he'll be in the UK next season."

Sid scowls. "That's not... I don't" he splutters. "It'd be cool to watch him play again."

"Sure," Jack says dryly, then takes mercy. "The Falcons did weirdly. Got Flower from the Quafflepunchers—” he pauses to grimace sympathetically.

Sid winces. “Ah, poor Flower.”

“Yeah, I mean, they might not be terrible,” says Jack. “They got Ouellette from the Griffins, Patric Hornqvist from Rumpeldunk, then a few rookies...”

They talk Quidditch until Sid's eyelids are actually closing, and Jack shoves him over to the sofa-bed.

The Malkin thing sticks with him though. Malkin was Tulskiye Zmiyi's star, the kind who spends their whole career in one place, makes a home in the town, and goes up on the stadium wall at the end of his career. More than that, Tulskiye is - or was with Malkin - a good team, a cup contender with a supportive fanbase. It's the kind of situation most players dream of being in, and Malkin's lost it, maybe thrown it all away.

Sid's never met Malkin, never been more than one of thousands of people in the stands who've watched him play. So he doesn't actually know Malkin, he reminds himself; he could be an entitled dunghead who's had his bluff called, or maybe he's got a nice English girlfriend.

Sid hopes he's okay.

The owl arrives a week later, just as Sid's twitchiness is beginning to get unbearable.

It's a small bird, neatly groomed, the kind that gets used for short-range deliveries, and it's got a piece of folded parchment tied to its leg. Sid takes the letter with trembling fingers and a sick feeling in his stomach.

The bird flies off again.

He takes a steadying breath and unfolds the letter.

_Dear Mr Crosby,_

_We are excited to invite you to the Falmouth Falcons trial days beginning from 21st August. This will be an opportunity for you to..._

Sid reads the first line three times before it sinks in, then once more for good measure. He doesn't cry, but it's a pretty near thing.

Sid ends up with invitations to three tryouts.

One from the Falcons, one from the Cannons, and one from the Wanderers.

He'll only be able to go to one. They're organised that way on purpose, forcing you to commit to a team, show the dedication they want from a rookie. It's not fair really, but what about Quidditch is.

Sid knows the safe option, the smart option is the Cannons. They're a bad team, reliably bottom five in the league, and have been stuck in a rebuilding cycle for as long as he's been alive. They're also a big market, the kind that brings stability, and no team can suck forever. Maybe, five years from now, they'll be a contender again. Most importantly, they're famously desperate for players. They’ll take him.

The Wanderers are similar. They spent last season trading their best players for picks and are now plugging the gaps in their roster with whoever they can find. Probably slightly higher standards than the Cannons, but not by much.

The Falcons are something else entirely. An expansion team, a ragbag group, made up of odds and ends, players who weren’t quite important enough to be protected. No one’s expecting very much of them, not in their first season, not in their first few seasons.

But they’ve got Malkin. Sid's not foolish enough to base life-changing career decisions on a childhood crush, really, it’s not about that. It’s about Malkin being brilliant, really breath-takingly brilliant.

Sid doesn’t want to spend the best years of his career circling the drain with a failing team and uninterested management. He wants to play fast, exciting Quidditch, the kind that makes your breath catch in your throat, that has your heart pounding with exhilaration. He wants to play to win with a team who want the same thing. He doesn’t think he could bear watching the Falcons from afar, tracking their progress on the league tables, always knowing what could have been, if he’d only been a little braver.

Maybe it's dumb, maybe it's hubris, maybe he'll bitterly regret it in a month.

He chooses the Falcons.

After a week of interviews, of fitness and strength testing, of grueling flying and brutal hits - even of re-growing three teeth with Skele-Gro - the Falcons choose him too.


	3. Chapter 3

Falmouth reminds Sid of Nova Scotia.

Much smaller, of course, but it's a town whose life blood is the ocean. There's a harbour full of little fishing boats, a proper market stocked with whatever's been caught that morning, and kids hanging off the end of the jetty crabbing. If Sid weren't near jittering out of his skin from excitement, he might have felt homesick.

The Falcons insist on sending over a staff member to show him around. Sid accepts politely. He thinks it'll probably be a waste of time, a standard offer aimed at pure-bloods who've never lived in a majority muggle town and need to be taught how to cross the road. God knows Sid has had to explain pedestrian crossings to Jack enough times.

Pascal "just call me Duper" Dupuis turns out to be a friendly local with a pronounced limp and an impossibly thick Cornish accent. He's very much not there to teach Sid how to cross a road.

Duper whisks Sid off down a maze of cobbled alleyways for a whirlwind tour of magical Falmouth. There are doors that need to be tapped in a certain place to open, shops that appear and disappear as you look at them, buildings that arrange themselves into impossibly leaning structures, and even a space under the jetty that looks like a waterlogged death-trap until it opens out into a lively wizarding marketplace.

It's unlike any town Sid's ever seen.

There's no room in Falmouth for a separate quarter that's dedicated to the magical world, not enough space for the strict delineation between magic and mundane that he's so used to. Instead, wizards and muggles live side-by-side in their own little patchwork world, a bizarre kind of ignorant harmony: windows merrily advertising a deal on chocolate frogs, right next to windows filled with tourist trap keyrings; a muggle bookshop with a hidden back room that expands into miles on miles of shelving; even an old lady feeding seagulls who runs a small owlery.

Duper zips through the tour, talking a mile a minute, while Sid tries to keep up. He points out the best places for eating, spots nearby to go on off-days, and reels off a long list of the best local brews. His pride in this little town, all its nooks and crannies, bleeds into every word.

"We're a tourist town," he explains. "During the summer, it's full to bursting with muggles. Totally dead during the Quidditch season, though, so there won't be any unwanted—"

"Mr Duper!" He's interrupted by a small gang of children who've come tumbling round a corner at top speed. Wizarding, Sid would guess, given the old-fashioned haircuts, but it's harder to tell with kids. "Mr Duper!"

Duper beams at them. "Hey there guys," he says. "Hope you're all staying out of trouble."

He gets back a chorus of earnest "yes sirs".

"These are the little terrors I teach at the local school," he says, turning to Sid, voice too fond to be hurtful.

"We're not terrors!" protests one of the little girls, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Duper laughs. "Of course you're not. And since you've been so well-behaved, I'm gonna introduce you to someone special." He crouches down to their level and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "This," he says, dragging Sid down too, "is Sid, and he's gonna be playing with the Falcons."

Nearly as one, they turn to gape at Sid. It's a little uncanny.

Sid spends the next few minutes answering a flood of questions as best he can. Are the Falcons gonna win the Cup? What are their jerseys going to look like? What's Evgeni Malkin like? Has he met Caroline Ouellette? The questions are unending, one after another, the kids' enthusiasm entirely unaffected by Sid's hesitant and stuttered answers.

Duper eventually shoos them away, promising them tickets for an exhibition game - "But only if you behave!"

Sid watches them scamper off. He feels a little shell-shocked.

It must show on Sid's face because Duper laughs. "Not used to that, huh?"

Sid shakes his head. "They were..." he trails off, tries again. "Quidditch is big round here."

"You have no idea," laughs Duper. "There were parties up and down the street when they announced we'd be getting a team." His smile fades a little. "You could lose every game this season and those kids would still be wearing your jerseys. I don't think anyone thought it'd actually happen."

Sid gets that.

_Welcome to Quidditch Weekly's coverage of the biggest Quidditch news of the week. Top of everyone's minds right now are the Falmouth Falcons - who finally have a roster! There are still many moving parts and the team will surely - hopefully - change a few more times before the season begins, but for the first time ever Falmouth has a Quidditch team filled with Quidditch players._

_So how good will they be? Well, let's just say the Cannons may have some competition in this year's race to the bottom._

_Some perplexing draft-day decisions have left the Falcons with what has already been labelled "the worst team in Quidditch". While I'm not sure about that (the late '80s Tornados anyone?), our projections - and the tea leaves - point to a roster that will struggle to compete._

_-The Falcons Were The Biggest Losers in the Expansion Draft_

It doesn't take long to slip into a routine.

There are trips to the market on Wednesday, walks down to the jetty on Thursday, calls with his parents on Friday, and drinks with Duper on Saturday. Mostly though, Sid spends as much time as possible at the stadium.

It's a half an hour walk from the town, with portkey stations built in along the route, faux-weatherbeaten signs directing visitors across muddy fields and clifftop paths, down to a natural harbour, smooth rockface, and patchy grassland long hollowed out by the sea. There, with seating set back into the rocks, wind shielding provided by the cliffside, and tucked safely away from prying eyes, is the huge wooden structure that makes up the Falmouth Falcons stadium.

Sid tries not to think of it as his stadium, not to get overly attached. He's a rookie, untried and untested; there's no telling how long he'll be in Falmouth. Staying detached is hard though. The atmosphere in the place is brilliant; a palpable buzz in the air and excitement building with every day that the start of season draws nearer.

It's still only mid-summer, so Sid's the only player around, but the arena is constantly bustling with barely organised chaos. There are league staff who've been involved with the Falcons since before they had a name, long before they had a location, who are finally seeing the team take shape; locals who've been Quidditch fans since they were kids, accustomed to travelling across the country to catch a game, and still can't believe that the league is going to be coming to their backyard; and the stressed contractors, who are just trying to get the final touches done before d-day.

So there's always someone to join for lunch, or a chat, or a drink at the end of the day, but for the most part Sid's training alone: just him, the full-sized stadium, and its state-of-the-art equipment. It's certainly a step-up from trying to fly in his basement.

_Second last in our list is the team many expect to actually be last in the league, the new team in town. Make no mistake, the Falmouth Falcons will be bad, very bad even, but the degree of badness might have been oversold. There are some good players on Falmouth and they might be enough to turn in a respectable first season._

_The pricey acquisition of Evgeni Malkin is a guarantee of high intensity fire-power and at least a few highlight reel goals that'll bring the stadium to their feet with wands out. He's unlikely to manage a repeat of last year's 900 point season, but it's not outlandish to think he can score 50 to 55 goals next season for Falmouth._

_Outside of him, the Falcons are relatively low on scoring threats. Caroline Ouellette should provide a veteran solidity with her reliable two-way play. We can safely assume that she won't have the star factor that so dazzled the league five years ago, but she should bounce back from the disappointments of last season...._

_-Elite League Season Preview: Falmouth Falcons_

Sid's been in Falmouth for a month when he arrives at the stadium on a cold, foggy morning and finds a tall figure in the middle of the field. His first assumption is that it's a confused contractor.

"You alright there?" he calls out, walking in their direction.

The figure's carrying a broom, Sid realises, which is weird because the only people who should be flying out here are players. It might be one of the locals, though, sneaking out to do a few illicit loops of the stadium before it plays host to the greats.

Then the figure turns, and Sid chokes on his own tongue. Evgeni Malkin is taller in person is his first, wild thought. He's lankier too, the kind of stretched out look of someone who's done a lot of growing in a very short amount of time, but it's undeniably him, dressed in training leathers and looking bemused.

"Oh my God," sputters Sid, stumbling backwards. "I'm so sorry— I thought—I'll just leave you to it."

"Why?" asks Malkin, amusement colouring his voice. "I'm not bite."

There's a short pause as Sid tries to make sense of that. "What?" he asks weakly.

Malkin looks like he's barely managing to refrain from rolling his eyes. "You're play with Falcons?"

Sid nods.

"We're on same team, yes?" says Malkin patiently.

Sid nods again, feeling increasingly foolish. He'd try to answer verbally, but he's not quite ready to trust his voice.

"So it's okay we play together," Malkin says, his grin just a little bit smug. "I'm trust you're not steal Quidditch secrets."

Sid's pretty sure he's being teased. Evgeni Malkin is teasing him.

He manages to find his voice and choke out, "I won't steal any secrets." Then, jerking his hand out awkwardly, "Sidney. I mean, I'm Sidney."

And he is definitely blushing now.

"Hello, Sidney," says Malkin. His face is twitching like he's trying not to laugh. "I'm Geno."

"I know," Sid says reflexively. Malkin smirks, and Sid immediately wishes he could bite the words back. "I mean—" he stutters, "I saw you play at World Juniors. You were brilliant."

Malkin — Geno's smirk widens into an easy smile. It's nice, kind of goofy, but nice.

_Where Falmouth gets interesting is in defence. Sarah Tueting is another player on the wrong side of thirty, but - barring no sudden decline - she has a few years of solid hoopminding left in her._

_Then the beaters. Where even to begin? A cynical witch might suggest that these players were chosen more for entertainment value than for skill. The pesky Patric Hornqvist looks to be the best of the bunch, fresh from a promising rookie season that showcased his aggressive offensively minded play. Then there's Pierre-Edouard Bellemare, moving onto his third team in three years. The phrase "last chance" springs to mind. Falmouth is clearly betting on Bellemare to bounce back, but after two underwhelming seasons that sounds like a squib's hope to me._

_And speaking of futile hoping, closing out the beaters is 5'2'' Jenni Hiirikoski. There's no denying that she's a strong flyer with a creative and intelligent style. Nor however is there any denying that she has struggled to build up the muscle needed to really challenge the larger...._

_-Team-by-Team: Falmouth aims to entertain from the start_

Training with Geno is amazing.

He's every bit as phenomenal as he was when Sid watched him at juniors, or even better: all easy confidence, the certainty that he can stop on a dime and fall into a perfect nose-dive, that he can barrel past Sid's defence and straight up to the goal hoops.

It's easy to get distracted, just watching him fly. Sid's never seen anyone look so completely at home on a broom, fluid and efficient and free in a way that's impossible on the ground. It's more than just having been on a broomstick since he's three - Sid's met plenty of guys like that, and none of them fly like Geno - it's something that's unique to him.

What's also amazing is that Sid can sort of keep up.

He's helped by the home-town advantage. Sid's been in Falmouth long enough to know the stadium fairly well, how to adjust to the inconstancy of the sea breeze, which areas are more vulnerable to the buffeting winds; little things that can make up for a skill gap, if Sid plays it smart.

There are hiccoughs; adjusting to a new training partner is always like that. Translation charms can struggle with the nuances of Quidditch terminology; Geno is increasingly unimpressed with Sid's Canadian flying drills; plus, perhaps predictably, they both hate to lose.

The first time Sid elbows Geno off his broom during a particularly intense one-on-one, he feels terrible. He doesn't even try to score, just descends the few feet to the ground and helps Geno to his feet, stuttering out apologies. Geno's not hurt, not with the soft-impact charms they use for practice, but, fuck, Sid knows that some guys don't appreciate being shoved around like that in training.

He feels less bad about it when Geno spends the next three hours of practice cobbing aggressively.

By the time Sid leaves the field, he's coated in sweat, with bruises all down his side and a smile on his face. There's nothing in the world like Quidditch with someone who gets you; when you can go all out, pushing yourself to be faster and stronger and better.

Maybe it's wishful thinking, the last vestiges of Sid's hero worship, but he and Geno seem to work well together. They really do.

Sid knows what chemistry feels like. He and Jack had always played well together, something in Sid telling him when to duck for a bludger over his head, when to trust that the whizzing in his ear wouldn't make contact with his back.

It's not the same with Geno - nor would Sid expect it to be after a week of playing together - but when they execute a perfectly timed drop feint, or a proper no-look backwards pass, or when Sid knows with iron-clad certainty where Geno will be, it feels good. It feels exciting.

_They do have a legit starting seeker in Marc-Andre Fleury. He's no Kquewanda Bailey, but he's shown that he's still got it in the playoffs last season. He's an average seeker who can be more than that when the occasion calls, and that's enough for most teams._

_There was a lot of scepticism about how good Falmouth could be. Then teams released their protected lists and there was optimism that they could be good. Then Falmouth picked their team and most of that optimism went out the window. There were some strange choices made (for Merlin's sake, were there no better rookies around than Sidney Crosby?) and the whole process seemed sub-optimal, but there are some nice pieces here that might be able to keep the team away from dead last._

_-Elite League Season Preview: Falmouth Falcons_

Duper foists Geno off on Sid for the Falmouth tour.

"You'll be fine!" he laughs, when Sid complains. "You haven't got lost in ages."

Sid glares at him and doesn't mention the twenty minutes he spent trying to find the pub yesterday. "You're just lazy," he says accusingly and hopes it doesn't sound too much like a whine.

Duper doesn't even argue with that, just winks and tells them both to have fun.

Geno watches the exchange, looking gently bemused, but doesn't say anything. He does that a lot. On a broom, he's loud and brash and confident, never missing a chance to show-off or chirp Sid mercilessly. On the ground, he's quiet, won't speak English at all without a translation charm, and barely speaks when he doesn't have to.

He's nothing like Sid had imagined he'd be.

He'd predicted the hockey right - that's exactly as unbelievable as Sid had hoped it'd be - but there are also belly-laughs, a huge goofy grin, and moments of shyness. That's not what Sid had expected at all.

He likes the real Geno better anyway.

They do get lost.

Well, not lost, more like Sid can't find the right cobbled alley.

Geno raises his eyebrows. "Sounds like lost."

"No, really!" Sid protests. If it gets back to Duper that he couldn't manage a tour after a month of living there, then he'll never hear the end of it. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can just will it into existence - he's definitely seen buildings like that before. "I know it's around here somewhere. It was only a few minutes from the church."

Geno looks sceptical, but he consents to being dragged around the area for another fifteen minutes with only some gentle chirping.

"Oh for—" Sid exclaims, when the latest narrow street leads to a dead end. "I mean, who designs a town like this?"

"Is all town's fault," Geno agrees, snickering. "Poor Sid is tricked by nasty town."

Sid eyes him but decides not to respond. Whatever, it was only a little apothecary; he can't imagine Geno needing to use it very often. He'll make up some excuse to ask one of the trainers, and they can come back later.

They turn back towards the high street, Geno still poking gentle fun. Sid can't bring himself to mind too much, not when Geno looks so amused, grin stretched all across his face and tongue sticking out of his mouth in a way that really shouldn't be cute.

Still, he is hungry. "You want to grab some lunch?" Sid interrupts, trying not to sound too eager. He's not entirely sure he succeeds.

Luckily Geno doesn't seem to notice. "Only if I'm choose place," he says, grinning. "Not want walk around Falmouth for hour looking for bakery."

"That's not fair," Sid whines, which only makes Geno's grin broader.

"Life not fair," he says brightly. "I'm see place down there," and he points back down the little alley, back towards—

"That's a muggle street," Sid says, and he hates how stupid he sounds. Geno knows it's a muggle street; they've just walked down it three times. But he doesn't know why else Geno would suggest it. Wizards don't eat in muggle establishments, not when there are dozens of wizarding places a five minute walk away. It's not what they do.

Geno looks at him and doesn't move. "Looks like good food," he says steadily.

And Sid doesn't get it, if it's a test or a joke or what. His chest feels tight, and he doesn't get it.

Whatever his face is doing must mean something to Geno, because he frowns. "Is problem?" Geno asks. He's not aggressive about it, more defensive than anything else, shoulders set like he's braced for something.

"No," Sid manages, because he's confused, but that's the truth. "No, that sounds— sounds fine."

There's a pause. Geno's expression is unreadable. Then he turns and starts leading them back up the alley onto the little muggle street.

Sid stumbles to catch up, and they walk in a heavy silence that sits thick on Sid's tongue. It seems to get heavier with every passing minute. He wants to say something, ask something, anything to stop the roiling in his stomach.

Finally, Sid swallows thickly. "Both my parents are muggles," he says. It comes out like a confession, quieter than he'd meant to, not helped by the clumsiness of his tongue or the heaviness of the atmosphere.

There's another beat of quiet, then Geno turns to look at him. His smile's back, faint but there, that awful blankness gone.

"My mama is muggle," he says seriously. "Best mama. Watch all my games."

Sid's chest loosens, and that's— Sid hadn't seen that in the reports, hadn't known that at all. "My parents don't really get Quidditch," he admits. "If it were up to them, I'd be playing a muggle sport— you know hockey? On ice?"

Geno grins and mimes hitting a puck with a stick.

Something bright and happy bubbles up in Sid; he can feel himself smiling helplessly. It's been years since he's played with anyone who knew about muggle sports, who knew anything about muggles at all. "Yeah!" he says excitedly, "You played?"

"No," says Geno, shaking his head. "Always Quidditch for me. Brother play though."

"My sister plays too," Sid says. "She's a goalie - keeper - with all the big padding."

"I'm see. Look like circle," Geno says snickering, making the shape in the air with his hands.

Sid laughs, the silly giggling laugh his teammates have always found hilarious. He can't bring himself to regret it though, not when Geno looks so pleased with himself. Plus, Taylor really does look like a circle when she plays, a very cute, very padded sphere.

They talk hockey all the way to the patisserie Geno had identified earlier. There they squeeze into a little booth at the back of the shop and put away five crab sandwiches between the two of them.

Sid tells Geno about hockey and his sister and Mottlefont and the shabby state of Canadian Quidditch. Geno interjects with his own stories about Koldovstoretz and the Quidditch they play on giant uprooted tree trunks - "can ride like dragon," Geno insists earnestly.

Sid's been in the wizarding world for nearly a decade now. He knows how to bite back certain references, to avoid slang and sayings that'll get him weird looks; he's used to that, used to doing the same thing at home too, cutting himself into parts. It's not often that he gets to just talk about everything - the muggle and the wizarding all mixed together. He hasn't since the Mongooses really, a team of kids who barely knew one end of the broom from the other. He's missed it, really missed it.

There's a comfortable lull in the conversation after the fifth grilled sandwich. Geno sits up and stretches, straightening out his long legs obnoxiously in the cramped space. Sid tries not to look at the sliver of skin between his waistband and top. He kicks Geno under the table instead, pushes him back to his side of the table.

"You were right," Sid says, "that was good food."

Geno smiles cheekily. "I'm always right. Should listen."

Sid grins back, too wide and just a little dopey.

It becomes their thing. Trips to muggle restaurants and coffee shops and pizza places that are definitely not on the diet plan.

There's so much to Falmouth, so much that's not wizarding, so much that skirts the border between worlds. It's even better now that Sid's got someone to share it with.

Sid has Geno to himself for almost a month.

It's enough time for Sid to stop gaping at Geno's every breakaway goal, enough time to visit every silly muggle tourist trap in Falmouth, and - best of all - enough time for their burgeoning in-air chemistry to crystallise into something solid and reliable.

After that, the rest of the team begins to trickle in.

There's Caroline Ouellette, tall and straight-backed with a grip firm enough to grind the bones of his hands. Sid hopes she can't feel how sweaty his palms are; he's been reading her name for as long as he's been into Quidditch.

Then it's Patric Hornqvist, all barely-contained excitement and straight-faced insistence on being called Horny. Then Jenni Hiirikoski who really is comically small for a beater but makes up for it in volume. Sid's grateful when Pierre-Edouard Bellemare turns out to be quieter, still friendly, but watching more than speaking.

Sarah Tueting arrives with aplomb and spends her first evening holding court in the pub, regaling Sid and the rookies with stories about mid-game curses, wild animals kept under her robes, and even an enchanted battle-axe pulled out from a sleeve.

"But that's old-style Quidditch," she says mournfully. "They don't play it like that anymore. I haven't had a good duel in years."

Ouellete snorts into a flagon of butterbeer. "The last time you dueled, Teeter," she interrupts. "You lost both hands for a week."

"It was barely a day!" laughs Tueting with theatrical indignation.

They dissolve into that brand of bicker-bragging that's so innate to Quidditch players. Sid must have seen his teammates do it a hundred times, in the locker room before and after games, over meals, during water breaks in training. Of course, usually his teammates aren't former World Champions.

The thought makes him grin into his butterbeer.

"What's funny?" asks Geno, throwing a heavy arm round his shoulders and leaning over him.

Sid's smile grows, and he hopes to Merlin that the room's dark enough to hide his blush.

"Nothing," he says, close enough to count Geno's eyelashes. "I'm happy."

Geno eyes him sceptically. Sid just beams back, heart thumping in his chest.

_This team is going to be bad, potentially historically so. They'll be bad for a few years. They won't even be enjoyable to watch once the novelty of the uniforms wears off, not unless you consider 500-50 blowouts enjoyable. But, really, that's okay. They have many, many draft picks, and as much cap space as anyone, and seemingly the go-ahead from the owner to be patient. For now, being bad actually is the plan._

_Just spare a thought for Evgeni Malkin. Going from the rising star of the Tulskiye Zmiyi to a Cornish coal pit can't be what he'd hoped his career would look like._

_-Opinion: Wow, the Falmouth Falcons are going to be bad_

Flower is the last to arrive. He bounces around the team's welcome drinks - hosted in the warm chaos of Sarah Tueting's huge beachside house - smiling toothily, drawing out names and laughter.

It's a good act, smile almost exuberant enough to hide his brittleness. if Sid didn't know him so well he'd probably fall for it. But he does know Flower, and what he looks like when he's smiling too hard after a bad loss. Sid doesn't say anything at the drinks, but he takes Flower out to breakfast the next morning.

In a little muggle pancake shop overlooking the harbour, he listens as Flower talks about the Quafflepunchers and catches him up on some mutual friends. Sid responds with stories about Falmouth and the Falcons - if a lot of them include Geno then Flower is kind enough not to do more than raise a judgemental eyebrow.

They're three drinks in by the time the excited flow of words slows to a trickle.

"I'm sorry about the trade," Sid says into the quiet.

Flower looks away, out the window at the little boats bobbing on the high tide. He's got a few years on Sid, but in that moment he looks very young. "That's the game, I guess," he says. "Sometimes there's just someone better."

The 'someone' in the sentence needs no explanation. Bailey's name has been topping every list of top rookies to watch for months.

"She's not better," Sid protests, putting his tea down harder than he'd intended to. The little table shakes alarmingly. "She's really not," Sid continues fiercely. "You had a bad season; she had a good season. That's all it is."

"That's what Vero said too," says Flower quietly.

Sid hasn't met Vero yet, just knows that the two were at Beauxbatons together, and that Flower smiles when he talks about her. Or he does usually.

"Maybe you should listen to us, eh?"

"Hard to listen to her when she's in Paris." Flower's eyes are on his coffee. "She's gonna visit, but she's not gonna move out here. She shouldn't. Not when we don't know how long... yeah."

How long Flower's gonna be here, Sid fills in. He gets it now, he gets it, and he doesn't know what he can do about it. He can tell Flower that he's a fantastic seeker until he's blue in the face, until Flower has to believe him. But he can't do anything about Vero.

He falls back to Quidditch. He always does.

"We're going to prove them wrong," Sid says earnestly. "We all will."

Flower tries for a smile, it's not as toothy as usual, but it's still there. "Promise?" he asks, and it's only half a tease.

"Promise," Sid says, and hopes desperately that it's the truth.

Starting out with a new team is hard. Starting out when the entire team is new is something else entirely.

It's learning a whole group of players from scratch, each with their own playing styles and quirks: how Ouellette yells when she wants the Quaffle that very second; how Bellemare aims the Bludger at the broom rather than the body; how Tueting likes to clear the zone high and centred. It's the hundreds of little details that can make or break a tough game.

They try, put in the hours, the extra practices, the after-training drinks. Ouellette becomes Caro, Bellemare becomes Belly, Tueting becomes Teeter.

They're not ready by the time their first game comes round. They know it, their coach knows it, probably the whole league knows it. Three weeks just isn't enough time to fit themselves together, to file down all the overlapping edges, and smooth them into something neat and uniform.

That's okay. The reality is that no team is ever ready at the beginning of the season. Sometimes you're not ready until the playoffs, or even until the finals. Until then, you make do with what you've got.

Coach tells them this in the locker room before their big home-opener against the Wanderers. "And what we've got," he finishes, gesticulating emphatically, "is a damn good start."

If it's meant to be inspiring, it falls a little short of the mark. Even Horny's irrepressible energy looks somewhat squashed.

Coach leaves, and there's a few seconds of nervous silence when the captain would usually speak. Sid's stomach churns like it's trying to eat itself, and even the veterans look apprehensive. This is a big one, the one the world is watching.

There's a huge roar from the opening ceremony outside - it's supposed to feature hippogriffs, Sid remembers absently - and then the sound of a magically amplified voice booming across the stadium. Any minute now.

Caro clears her throat. "Alright, guys," she says. "No one out there respects us." She pauses, and looks around at them, all clad in unfamiliar grey and black. "I mean it. I'm not trying to be funny. They don't respect us. They expect to walk all over us, and for us to fucking roll over and let it happen." She grins savagely. "Well, fuck them."

There's a ripple of laughter and an appreciative whoop from Horny.

"We are going to fucking make this league respect us," she continues, nearly shouting now, loud enough to drown out the crowd outside. "Let's go out there and fucking show them."

And that's what they do.

Geno gets a goal in the opening minutes of the game, a beautiful centre-hoop shot off a fast pass from Sid. Caro follows it up with another two in quick succession, and they're thirty up before the Wanderers have worked out which direction the wind is coming from.

It's one of those games in which Sid's passes go hand-to-hand every time, he knows where Caro and Geno are before he even thinks to pass, and the Wanderers are attracting Bludgers like ticks to a kneazle.

Flower finishes it in under an hour, two hundred and ten to thirty, huge toothy smile all over his face. Turns out coach was right, it is a good start.

_Whereas past expansion efforts such as the 1985-86 Heidelberg Harriers chased respectability with passive, defensive-minded systems, the Falcons swarm on aggressive breakouts, overwhelm with swift counterattacks, choking opponents through prolonged offensive possessions. The offensive pairing of Evgeni Malkin and rookie Sidney Crosby, reinforced by Caroline Ouellette's suffocating two-way play, is proving to be difficult to beat._

_"They play with arrogance, which is a compliment," said commentator Gwendolyn Morgan. "They make behind-the-back passes, passes in the circle going straight hand-to-hand. They just know when someone's coming through, and - boom - they take off."_

_-They were supposed to be a sideshow, but the Falmouth Falcons are damn fun to watch_

Beginner's luck against the rebuilding Wanderers is a nice start, a good morale booster to kick off the season, but it's not sustainable. Even they don't expect it to be sustainable.

Then they beat Portree. It's a tough game that they only win because Jen knocks out the opposing seeker. Still, two in a row.

Then Puddlemere. Sid scores the game-winner and spends the evening tucked against Geno's side, smiling so hard his face aches.

There's a loss to Appleby, then wins against Tutshill, Caerphilly, and Ballycastle.

It's the kind of streak that feels like it'll last forever, that has them walking onto the pitch with grim smiles and unshakable confidence, then walking off with crashing hugs and whoops of celebration. The kind of streak that reminds Sid of being twelve and flying for the joy of it.

They're investigated twice for ball tampering, once for Legilimency, and then for illicit wand possession. Nothing changes.

Sid can't really blame them for being suspicious. He knows that management is doubling down on security at the events, just in case there is a particularly devoted fan with a knack for furtive discombobulation charms out there. The penalties for that would be massive, enough to bankrupt the franchise for sure.

There's no cheating, though. Sid knows that with certainty, the way he knows the smell of the sea and the feel of magic on his tongue.

It's just them, the Falcons. They click.

Maybe it's that they all came to each other at the same time. Sure, Caro and Teeter had faced off against one another for years, Belly and Flower had overlapped for a season at Beauxbatons, but there were no ready-made groups. They've all learnt each other, they've all had to.

Maybe it's the excitement of starting something. The brand new stadium, the unfamiliar colours on their chests, the home fans who turn up in droves to every game. They're building something here, and they know it.

Or maybe it's because they're all unwanted.

It's not something anyone's shy about mentioning; it's the first chirp out at any flub in training.

"No wonder we're the only ones who'd take you," laughs Jen, when Sid fumbles a pass from Geno during a drill. And the first time it makes him flinch a little, but by the fifteenth he just rolls his eyes and chirps back.

They all know it's true, the media knows it, their fans know it, their opposition knows it. So they own it - try to have fun with it even - because if you own something, take pride in it, then it can't be used against you.

A Portree chaser spits, "No one fucking wanted you."

"Hell no, they didn't want me!" yells back Belly.

It doesn't make much sense, but it makes Jen laugh, fierce and wild, as she sends a bludger flying towards the keeper.

"Would you say there's any resentment towards your previous teams?" a reporter asks Caro, his quick notes quill already scratching away.

She shakes her head, sweaty hair sticking to her face. "No. At the end of a day, it's a business," she says. "We all know there's nothing personal in it." She smiles, polite and professional as ever, and maybe the reporters don't see it, but Sid can see the flint in her eyes.

They're a patchwork team made of weaponised anger, chipped shoulders and sharp edges. They've all got something to prove.

_Thanks, Falmouth Falcons. That's enough now. You can stop being so bloody good any time. No, seriously. This is getting weird now._

_We can explain away a lot of the hot start. Buoyed by the emotion of an inaugural season and a Quidditch-starved home town, the Falcons are 5-1 at home. They've had tremendous keeping from Sarah Tueting, keeping them top-five in the league in goals against. Evgeni Malkin too was always going to be a star - although even the tea leaves didn't point to a 100 goal plus season. But what about Pierre-Edouard Bellemare becoming a defensive wall? Or Fleury who is apparently a summoning charm given human form?_

_So the Falmouth Falcons aren’t exactly who most of us thought they were, but they’re still likely closer to that than what their current record indicates. They’ve won with a little bit of lady luck on their side, but as Felix knows, luck can change in an instant._

_-Are the Falmouth Falcons for real?_

It's February the first time someone mentions it.

Predictably it's Horny, blood still smeared down his cheek from an errant bludger, bouncing off the walls, high off the adrenaline of a hard-fought win.

"See you in the playoffs, fuckers," he yells at the Magpies as they leave the pitch.

Teeter rolls her eyes, grabs the back of his uniform and tugs him backwards down the tunnel. No-one wants another post-game scuffle.

It's not the first time someone's raised the possibility. Caro's fielded a few premature questions from media, and Sid's seen the odd opinion pieces - he hasn't read them, tries to avoid them mostly. But it is the first time that someone on the team's mentioned it.

Sid almost wishes Horny hadn't said anything.

He's not superstitious, not by wizard or muggle standards - he doesn't care about black cats, may-born witches, or what anyone's wand is made of. He's just careful.

Careful when he wraps his broomstick in hockey tape to help with grip. Careful when he eats the same thing, at the same time before every game. Careful what he sets his heart on.

Whether Horny meant to or not, his brash enthusiasm has broken the floodgates; there are emphatic declarations of who they could absolutely beat in three, wistful smiles and "what ifs".

Sid tries not to get involved. He nods along when it comes up in conversation, smiles in placid agreement and waits for the subject to change. Flower's definitely noticed, slugging him in the shoulder with an air of fond exasperation, but he leaves Sid to it.

It's not a superstition, it's just sensible. There are hundreds of players who spend their whole careers in the Elite League, and never make it out of the first round. Caro's one of them, top-five pick, World Champion, been around for twelve years, and for all that only nine playoff games.

Sid's here, he's playing with the Falmouth Falcons, with an amazing team, with Geno. That should be enough.

He busies himself with other things: staying around with anyone who wants to after practice is over, going through scoring and maneuvering drills, cardio and conditioning training with the trainers, or sometimes just messing around. He hasn't yet won one of their impromptu quaffle-kicking competitions - Belly is weirdly good at that - which is grating on him more than it should.

Off-pitch, Teeter has a relentless team-bonding programme; evening drinks in the pub, a disastrous night-out in Exeter, several competitive fishing-trips that end with half the team soaking wet. Sid even manages to find the time to take the occasional muggle-style day-trip with Geno - to the lighthouse across the bay, the old World War Two bunker down the coast, or just the little aquarium. He tries very hard not to think of them as dates.

_Among those who bet before the British and Irish Elite Quidditch League season began on the Falmouth Falcons to win the Cup, 99.99% simply wanted the ticket as a keepsake from the team's inaugural season, says Walter Parkin, the Diagon Alley-based oddsmaker._

_"I know a witch who is a big Quidditch fan and Falcons season ticket holder," Parkin told me. “Her original plan was to collect a bunch of memorabilia to hang on the wall in her office. Now she’s got a ticket with a potential thousands of galleons payday.”_

_The Falmouth Falcons, if you have not heard by now, have had a stunning and magnificent first season and have posted 12 of the 16 victories needed to win the Cup. They beat Puddlemere United on Sunday...._

_-An expansion team unlike any other, Falmouth could make the playoffs in their first season_

February melts into March, and the Falcons keep winning.

It's not a hot streak, it's not a fluke, it's not an enchantment. Even the most sceptical of critics have had to admit that by now. They're in the running for the southern regional champion because they're good.

Sid gives up on his no-talking-about-the-playoffs policy. When even the coaches are bringing them up every other sentence, it's not really practical. Plus as much as he doesn't like talk of "guaranteed" or "certainties", well, they'd have to lose a lot of games in a very short space of time to miss them now.

He still surreptitiously crosses his fingers in his lap when playoff planning comes around - it's childish enough that he hopes Flower never finds out, but it helps with the fluttering in his stomach.

_The Falmouth Falcons have defied the odds -- they are going to the Elite League playoffs._

_With a 250-190 victory over the Wimborne Wasps on Monday night, Falmouth became the first Elite League team to clinch a playoff berth in its inaugural season since the Cannons in the 1800s. Impressive work for a team who opened the season with 500-1 odds to win the Cup._

_Star beater Pierre-Edouard Bellemare said the team didn't harbour any resentment towards the cynics. "I think we were all surprised at how good we turned out. We got off to that fast start and, from then on, it was pretty unbelievable. We've survived a lot of challenges this year, and I think we really connected with the town - I'm so proud of the whole team."_

_Falmouth is currently in first place in the southern region. With 65 points, the Falcons are only four points back of the Holyhead Harpies in the race for the league's best season-long record. Only three points..._

_-Falmouth Falcons Qualify for the Playoffs in Their First Season_

He and Geno get in a final outing before playoffs begin.

They try to do them before big games. That's not even a routine - it'd be impossible to keep up given their schedules - but it helps Sid take his mind off things, gets him out of the house and away from obsessing over the Magpies' keeper, and it's one-on-one time with Geno which is, well, it's special, hard to come by too at this point in the season.

The Cornish coastline is dotted with old seaside villages, all bustling with muggle tourists at this time of the year. One of the villages just across the bay from Falmouth has a Tudor castle. It's not Sid's usual taste in history, a bit early, a bit English, but Geno had looked longingly at the advertisements for a visiting falconer and that had seemed a bit too much like fate.

They take the ferry across to the castle and spend the day exploring the narrow stone staircases, the huge rugged battlements, and the creepily life-like models of Tudor soldiers. Geno finds the falconer and stands stock still, grinning all over his face, as a falcon settles disdainfully on his arm and stares around unblinkingly. It shouldn't be cute, wouldn't be if Sid weren't so ridiculously gone on him.

They even run into a small wizarding family who recognises them, the little girls staring at them unsubtly for five minutes before they pluck up the courage to come over for an autograph.

While they're signing a ferry ticket, the bigger one nervously tells Geno, "You're my favourite player."

He smirks obnoxiously at Sid. "Good taste," he tells her.

She smiles back, huge and ice cream stained. "My sister likes Jenni Hiirikoski," she says. Then, turning to Sid apologetically, "Sorry, Mr Crosby."

Sid can't bring himself to look even mock offended. He's not sure about meeting fans, still finds the whole concept of having fans to be unfamiliar and slightly unsettling, but when they're children, small and earnest and enthusiastic, that's pretty great.

"You're very sensible," he tells the little one seriously. "Jenni's the best."

Their mother waves them back over, smiling at Sid and Geno, and the girls turn to go.

"Good luck in the playoffs, Misters," says the big one before she leaves. "My mama says you're gonna win."

Sid smiles and turns to look at Geno. He's still watching the little family, looking a million miles away.

"Hey," Sid says, hip-checking him gently. "I thought there was a no Quidditch rule."

"For you, not for me," says Geno, still a little distracted.

Sid hip-checks him again, harder this time, until Geno sputters and threatens to curse him into the sea. That's more like it.

They stay in the castle gardens all through the afternoon. Sid is trying to read all the weather-worn information boards as the shadows lengthen and darken, until the only light is the twinkling of the castle in the distance and a furtive lumos charm.

"My mama visit for playoffs," says Geno out of nowhere.

Sid stills, stops focusing on how you put gunpowder into a cannon. Geno doesn't often talk about his family, nor about Zmiyi and Russia, keeps that close to his chest.

"She's want to visit for long time," Geno continues. He's standing by the safety railing that demarcates the beach from the castle grounds, looking out towards the little lights of Falmouth on the horizon.

A few seconds tick by. "Why didn't she?" Sid asks carefully.

"In Tula, they don't like mama," Geno says quietly. "Tulskiye Zmiyi. They don't like mama watching games. Say it's not good for organisation, not good for fans."

Geno looks out at the roiling, grey sea, and Sid realises with a horrible jolt that his eyes are wet.

"Papa isn't around, not since I'm little. It's just me and Denis and mama. She's have to work so hard, feed two boys," Geno breaks off to give a wan smile, "not always good boys."

Sid huffs out a soft laugh. He can't imagine Geno's big, soft heart was that different as a child.

"After Koldovstoretz, mama still look after me: send letters and food. She's not understand, you know, but she's happy that I'm happy."

And, God, does Sid know what that's like; like you're leaving the people who love you behind, like you've got two lives, and they're tearing you apart, like you don't really fit anywhere.

"And then there's Tula," Geno continues, the words tumbling out of him like he's held them in too long. "She's so proud to have son who play professional sport, she's watching games, and she's wearing uniform, and she's.... she really love it."

He's crying properly now, fat tears running down his cheeks. Sid reaches out and touches Geno's hand, angry helplessness surging through him. When Geno doesn't pull away, he twines his fingers tight around Geno's.

"Long time I'm not realise that Tula don't like her. First it's just little things: mama never do interviews for fans, she's never in... parchment for information... programme, she's never in game programme, she always sit at back of parents. And mama of course never complain. She's... she's so good, so excited to watch."

He breaks off again, staring at the sea, the waves crashing onto the stony beach below them. Sid doesn't say anything, just squeezes his hand.

"Tula have trip for parents, when players' mamas and papas come on road trip. I'm not see mama very much during season, so I'm excited to spend time with her, show her life, buy nice dinner, introduce to friends, watch my game. She's excited too..." Geno pauses to gulp a little and wipe angrily at his eyes. "Then Tula says no. They say she's find it difficult, she's not enjoy trip or Quidditch, she's more happy to stay at home. I'm confused, say of course she enjoy. They say no, no. It take a while, but I realise Tula don't gave a fuck about happy, they don't want her on trip."

Geno swallows hard. His fingers flex round Sid's, but he doesn't pull away.

"I have to call mama that evening, say there's a change, and she can't come, say maybe next time. Mama doesn't complain, she's never complain. But she look at me, and I know. I know my mama. She thinks I'm ashamed of her, that she's embarrassment."

He spits the last word with a venom Sid hasn't heard him use off the Quidditch pitch.

"I don't care about motherfu- about Tulskiye Zmiyi, about career, about winning Cup. They say Quidditch or mama. I'm say mama."

He falls quiet. Sid's never heard Geno say so much or with so much feeling. He wonders if he's exhausted himself.

The sky's completely darkened now, the sea deepened to match, that brilliant clear blue turned to black. The darkness is dotted with the reflection of little ship's lights, a sky full of stars. Sid shuffles closer, lets Geno lean into him, warm and solid.

"I never want to be ashamed of mama. Never."

"I think you're brave," Sid tells him. He means it.

They hold hands on the ferry back to Falmouth.

Geno drags them up to the ferry's open air seating. This far into winter, they're the only ones foolish enough to be out there, but Geno settles them tightly into a corner anyway, bundling them close up together. "Is cold," he says with wide, honest eyes, still a little bloodshot from earlier. Then he conjures a tiny blue-flamed spark and cups his hands around Sid's.

They spend the journey like that, warm despite the wet buffets of the sea wind. Sid reads aloud from a muggle tourist brochure he's picked up, and Geno interrupts occasionally to point out oddly shaped waves that he swears are seals.

"Or a selkie," Sid suggests, peering across the dark waves and squinting into the sea foam.

"No, no," Geno says, patting Sid's hands and grinning confidently. "Is definitely seal. I'm know this."

It should be smug and patronising, and on someone else maybe it would be, but all Sid feels is a warm swell of fondness. Geno is brash and bullying, but he's also silly and kind and so very loyal.

Sid loves Quidditch, he loves flying, and the Falcons, but in that moment he thinks he would be happy to stay there on the ferry forever; just him and Geno, wrapped up in warmth and quiet as the ferry rocks and the salty tang of the sea whips their faces.

It's a nice fantasy. Then the ferry pulls joltingly into Falmouth, and they unlink hands to disembark, needing the extra security to climb the seaweed-coated jetty steps.

They don't join hands again, but Sid steels his nerves, pushes up onto his toes and kisses Geno goodnight. That's pretty good too.

Then they're into the playoffs, and it's all Sid can do to collapse into bed in the evenings. Every game is bruising, every pass matters, and the team finishes each game exhausted. There's the physical wear of being constantly hurt and aching, there's the emotional drain of the constant stress, and there's the combination of the two that Sid feels he could drown in.

The locker-room is a seascape of ups and downs. Wins are huge, they're bouncing off the walls with wild adrenaline-fuelled jubilation and triumph. Losses physically hurt, each one a step closer to being out, after they've come so far, fought so hard.

People don't change in the playoffs, but they're more intense. Horny throws his whole body into every hit of the bludger, ending each game varying shades of black, blue and green; Caro turns to flint, unflinching in defeat, unstoppable in victory; Belly is quieter, speaks less and means more when he does. They all know how to get through it; they've all done this before. It's new to Sid, new to Jen too.

New and wonderful and terrifying all at once.

He and Geno don't manage any more trips. They don't even try. There's precious little time to rest and recuperate, let alone for leisure; they carve out little snatches of time for companionable dinners and naps, not much time for talking, but still a form of quiet togetherness.

The qualifying series against Ballycastle is a nightmare of brutality, Skele-Gro and essence of dittany administered liberally in time-outs, feeling ribs crack into place as he mounts his broom and kicks off, only to take a bludger to the side minutes later, and feel them splinter all over again. It's wind and rain, cold fingers and warm blood, barrel rolls and whiplash stops, and it's worth it. It's all worth it to hit the ground, throw his arms around Belly and pile onto Flower, the snitch raised over his head in triumph.

They're going to the finals. They're a mishmash expansion team, and they're going to the finals in their first year.

That's not what happens in real life, it’s just not. It's the kind of life he used to imagine in bed at Mottlefont, a silly and self-indulgent fantasy, so he could slip into sleep with a smile on his face.

_A first-year expansion team with a cobbled-together roster of castaway players is one win away from the Elite League Cup - and the most implausible championship in Quidditch history._

_This is the underdog story that dreams are made of. The Falmouth Falcons aren't just a team that was supposed to be bad. They're a team made up from the outcasts of all the other, better teams. They're a collection of misfit toys who were all told they were expendable: veterans who'd stuck around too long, rookies with big dreams and poor starts, no-namers from under-developed foreign markets. And now they might win the Cup._

_-Welcome to impossible: the Falmouth Falcons and the sporting miracle that makes no sense._

Sid requests three tickets for the finals. Then he calls his parents.

It takes a bit of explaining for them to get it, but they do get it - in all the ways that matter. And they're so excited to visit; his mom starts blinking a lot, and his dad clears his throat gruffly. Sid's chest pangs uncomfortably, and he regrets not doing this earlier. Well, he's doing it now.

"And," he pauses and swallows. It's not that he's nervous, or at least he hadn't thought he was; he knows his parents, who they are and who they're not, but his throat is suddenly very dry.

His mom must catch something in his face because her smile drops. "There's nothing wrong is there?" she asks carefully.

Sid shakes his head, smiling despite the nerves. That's what happens when he thinks about Geno, he's found. He can't keep all the happiness locked away inside himself.

"Nothing wrong," he says. "Just... When you come over, there's someone I'd really like you to meet."

And he really would like them to meet Geno. He wants to watch Geno charm his dad with big goofy smiles, to have his mom recognise Geno's soft heart and kind eyes, to watch Taylor's teenage reticence melt into happy chattering.

If he'd thought his mom looked happy before, well, she's beaming now. "Someone special?" she asks, a little teasingly.

It's such a childlike phrase, but Sid's tongue-tied and feeling not unlike a child, so he doesn't correct her; he just nods mutely.

"We'd love to meet them, sweetheart," she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

She doesn't even stumble over the pronoun, and Sid feels stupid for his nerves, feels his heart swell in his chest.

"Do we, erm," stutters his dad, "do we know them?"

"Yeah," Sid says. "It's Evgeni Malkin - Geno - he plays chaser with me. On the Falcons." He pauses, racks his memory for the hockey term. "My linemate."

He must get it right because his dad's face settles into something resembling satisfaction. "Oh," he says. "Well, that's good, uh, very good."

And it is. It's really good.

They spend the rest of the call discussing logistics. Sid will need to portkey over to help them set up their own portkey, and he'll set them up in a nice muggle hotel - either in Falmouth or across the bay in St Mawes. It'll be good - he realises that, even aside from the finals, he's looking forward to it, to showing them this little world he's so proud of.

_I'm not a Quidditch fan. Cue the comically shocked expressions, as if I'd admitted to kicking crups in my free time. I know, I know, I'm a heathen, but I wasn't always this way. At Hogwarts, I'd gather in the freezing cold to watch Ravenclaw lose three times a year, screaming and shouting with the best of them. When I left school, I found myself missing that sense of unity and togetherness, so I bought an Angelina Johnson jersey and started turning up to the local Holyhead games._

_The Quidditch was better, the crowds were bigger, and the stakes were higher, but it wasn't the same. What I quickly came to realise is that the Elite League is an institution, and, like every other institution in this country, it is living in the past. High level Quidditch rewards players who have been playing before they could walk, who can afford top model brooms and protective gear, who come from the right background - in other words, it rewards purebloods. Pulling on my jersey started to leave a sour taste in my mouth. I stopped attending games._

_That was five years ago. This season I, along with the rest of the country, have watched in awe as the Falmouth Falcons have stormed the league. I'm told they're a first-year expansion team which is apparently a big deal in the Quidditch world. What that means in practice, is that they're the riff-raff: the older ladies, the foreigner with a shady past, and no less than four players of muggle descent. That matters._

_I still don't much care for Quidditch and its many long-institutionalised problems, but I'm grateful to the Falcons. Here's to watching them drag the league, kicking and screaming, into the modern world._

_-The Elite League needs the Falcons more than it knows_

The day the finals begin, Sid wakes to an owl from Jack, an excited scrawl ending with a promise to make it over for the final game. It feels like a good omen.

He takes his parents down to the stadium early. He arrived at their hotel early too, near jittering out of his skin with nerves, tension sitting heavy in the bottom of his stomach.

His parents are sympathetic. Taylor is not. The moment she sees him, she rolls her eyes. "You need to chill out," she says, before giving him a good luck hug. He ignores the snark and hugs her back, maybe a little too tight.

They're early enough for Sid to give them a quick stadium tour. Taylor loves it, loves that the stands are hewn out of cliff, and she can see the sea. His parents are less effusive, but he thinks they like it.

They're more nervous around wizards; they've seen a little of what magic can do, know exactly how welcome they are in the wizarding world, how vulnerable they are. They do warm up to it, though, situated comfortably in the family box with a good view of the crowd streaming in. With the banners, the clothing, the mascots, the sheer noise and enthusiasm of the place, the excitement is contagious.

At two hours to quaffle-drop, Sid heads down to the locker room. Then it's one hour. Then thirty minutes.

The locker room is filled with the usual energetic chaos: Caro trying to get through a final strategy run-down, Jen listening intently while Horny and Teeter work themselves into a frenzy, all chaotic twitchy energy. Belly's leant back against the wall, fingers moving restlessly on his bat, and Flower's staring into the middle distance, normal toothy grin a little manic.

Geno catches Sid's eye and smiles, all affectionate cocky confidence.

Sid's heart clenches like it's too big for his chest: the finals of the Elite League playoffs, with a team he loves, his parents watching, and Geno next to him.

Maybe they'll leave victorious, maybe they'll leave empty-handed.

Where it really matters, they might have already won.

**Author's Note:**

> Come complain with [me](https://sequestering.tumblr.com/) about how Quidditch makes literally no sense as a serious sport.


End file.
